


Kinktober 2019

by Superstition_hockey



Series: Depth on the Bench [24]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 'Crash' does not mean safe and sound, A little, A tag I didn't know about until just now, Achilles - Freeform, Aftercare rituals, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Author is not a historian, Bells Teixeira vs the Patriarchy, Bells Teixeira vs the military industrial complex, Belts, But enthusiastic consent, Capitalism, Chastity Device, Chronic Pain, Cock & Ball Torture, Cock Cages, College, Coming Out, Competition, Consensual Humiliation, Consentacles, Cowboys, Crash's determination to be unrelentingly herself, Crossdressing, Danger Kink, Daniel from PR, Des Moines, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Penetration, Drunken Confessions, Dubious Consentacles, Duncs deserves good things, F/M, Famous author Jacks, Father issues, Femdom, Fighting Nazis, Flogging, French Resistance, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Gangbang, Gentleman's Guide to Gangbangs, Group Sex, Halloween Costumes, Hallucinations, Hank Teixeira reluctant sadist, Hank/Manon/Duncs, Heterosexism, Historical Roleplay, Hopeful Ending, Impact Play, Imperfect BDSM etiquette, Impregnation, Injury, Jordie Evangelista/OFC endgame, Just the Tip, Kink demonstration, Kinktober, Leather Kink, Lingerie, Luc's eyelashes, Luc's need to push himself, Luc's supersitions, Lucs distrust of cephalopods, M/M, Masturbation, Mild body horror maybe?, Military, Military Training, Motherhood, Mt. Everest, Multi, Name-Calling, Nipple Clamps, No actual nazis given screen time because honestly fuck them, Oliver Jackson dressed as Captain James Flint, Oliver Jackson's vanilla kink for domestic Luc, Or discussions thereof more accurately, Or just discussion of old injuries, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Oxygen Deprivation, Pegging, Phone Sex, Polyamory, Possessive Luc, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Queer outlaw counterculture, Ridiculous bathrooms of the rich and famous, Risk aware consensual gangbang, Roleplay, Rope Bondage, Sex Negotiation, Sex Toys, Sex Work, Sex as team building, Sexually flexible rugby dudes, Size Difference, Slowly realizing half of these fics are going to turn out not kink fics, Sounding, Spanking, Surf House 2.0, Surfing, Suspension, Tattoos, Technically knife play, Temi finally stops dating baseball players, Tentacles, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Unrealistically Good First Times, Vehicle repair, Virginity, Vive la Resistance, Voyeurism, WWII, Wax Play, clothespins, gender stuff, internalized polyphobia, international espionage, making it work, mountain climbing, old trucks, pain play, role play, safety kink, sub space, winning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2020-11-08 23:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 58,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20843801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey
Summary: Unconnected (or maybe sometimes loosely connected) short fic/ficlets set in the Superstition universe -- non linear.





	1. List

1\. **Frottage**/Power exchange/**Vanilla kink** \--- Luc/Jacks  
2\. **Voyeurism**/Penance/Hypnosis or Mind Control ---Luc/Jacks  
3\. Genital torture/Class fantasies/**Leather**\--- Luc/Jacks  
4\. **Pain play**/Gags/Body inflation ---Hank/Manon/Duncs  
5\. Authority figures/Guns/**Size Difference** \---Jimmy/Mavs  
6\. **Suspension**/**Wax play**/Writing on the body ---Luc/Jacks  
7\. **Competition**/Silence/Blades ---Luc/Crash/Jacks  
8\. **Tentacles/Sex toys**/Humiliation ---Luc/Jacks  
9\. **Tattoos**/Obedience/Double penetration ---Luc/Jacks  
10\. **Sex work**/Public spaces/Medical kink --- Luc/Jacks  
11\. Sensation play/**Gang bang**/Danger --- Penelope/Jordan Evangelista/Matthew Pendowski/Paul Sokowski/Daniel Perciney/Tuomas Lahteenmaki/Iain McComeau  
12\. **Orgasm denial**/Wetting/**Sounding --- **Luc/Jacks  
13\. **Injuries/Altered states or drug use/Wet and messy **\---Luc/Jacks & Crash (historical AU)  
14\. Exhibitionism/Object penetration (not sex toys)/**Impact play **\---Daniel From PR/Kris  
**1**5\. **Pegging**/Tickling/Unconscious --- Luc Chantal/Being a petty little shit, Henrik "Bergie" Tallberg/His gf's New Strap  
16\. Immobilization/Negotiation/**Role play **\--- Katya/Oskar  
17\. Torture or interrogation/Crying/**Just the tip **\--- Bells/Haywood  
18\. **Bondage**/Sex slave/**Ritual **\---Luc/Jacks  
19\. **Endurance**/Dirty talk/**Cream pie **-Bells/Haywood  
20\. Under the clothes/**Threesome**/No touching --- Hank/Manon/Duncs  
21\. **Cross dressing**/Daddy kink/Face-sitting ---Temi/Dusty  
22\. **Sweaty**/Ropes or chains/Begging --- Luc/Jacks  
23\. Biting/**Historical role play/**Caged --- Luc/Jacks  
24\. Domestic discipline/**Blood**/Roughness ---Luc/Mount Everest  
25\. No safe word/**Clothespins**/Pony or puppy play --- Daniel From PR/Kris  
26\. Pervertibles/Body horror/**Fluid exchange **\---Bells/Haywood  
27\. Breath play/**Role play outside of sex**/Latex --- Surfhouse 2.0, Achilles/Patroclus  
28\. **Anonymity**/Bruises/Glory hole ---Bells/Haywood  
29\. **Indulgence/Age gap**/Scarification -- implied sugarbaby Luc/Grant  
30\. Consent play/**Body modification/Tit fucking ** \-- Luc/Jacks  
31\. Foot fetish/**Chastity devices**/Subspace or Domspace -- Sasha/Liam


	2. Frottage/Vanilla kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frottage/Vanilla kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dudes and welcome to Kinktober, where we are starting off this thing with.... nothing all that kinky. Just Jacks being absolutely horny on main for Luc doing vanilla domestic shit, Luc learning a life skill that doesn't have anything to do with hockey, and some good old fashioned frotting.

The serpentine belt on the Land Rover has been bad for about a month, and undrivable for two weeks. Luc knows Jacks was annoyed about it -- not that Jacks ever drives Luc’s truck anyway but they’d had to take a dog to the vet to get spayed, and then a half-feral momma cat had kittens in the greenhouse, so they’d had to go to the vet again, and Jacks had grouched about fleas and what if the momma cat got car sick, and Luc intercepted the pet carrier as Jacks was carrying it out to the garage, and put it in his Lambo instead, since Jacks didn’t want feral cats in the back of his Range Rover, and Crash had said, “Don’t look me at me, Jacks, I’m just here for the newborn, you guys can handle your domestics on your own.” 

Someone in the vet parking lot had taken pictures of Luc unloading a pet carrier from the passenger side of the Lambo and CDPC did a “HOCKEY PLAYERS THEY’RE JUST LIKE YOU AND ME (sort of)” article. It was all very funny. Ha ha ha. Luc Chantal makes trips to the vet in a $600,000 Supercar that can’t even get out of first gear in city limits. 

But Luc has a plan. He has watched sixteen YouTube videos. He has gone to a _hardware store_. He went to _CarQuest_. By himself. He's ordered the _special tools_. And now, it’s summer, the season’s over. The post-season’s over and Luc has another ring, another set of dates tattooed on his ribs. The school year’s over, too, for Sasha, and Henri is old enough for international flight. His and Jacks’ parents will be here tomorrow. Sveta and Stick got in last night with Sasha and Natalka and little baby Leonie and Luc made everyone pancakes for breakfast and they’re here one more week, until Henri gets another round of immunizations, and then they’re all going on vacation. 

Jacks does the washing up after breakfast and Luc says, “Hey, Sasha, the serpentine belt on my truck is broken, you want to come help me fix it?” 

Look, the thing is, Luc knows that the only thing he knows how to do is play hockey. Play hockey, earn money, and pay other people to do the rest of it. And Sasha knows how to play hockey. He plays with the other ‘diques kids when he’s going to school at their arena. And he plays with Martin’s kids in Montreal when he’s staying with Sveta and Stick. He plays shinny in the backyard in the winter. But he also plays tennis. He _likes tennis more_ and Luc understands, it’s easier. At seven and eight, it starts getting hard to travel back and forth between cities all through the year. He can’t really be on a consistent team, for hockey, with the way Luc and Sveta share custody, but he can always play tennis, no matter where he is, and he’s _good at it_. 

It’s just Luc doesn’t know shit about tennis, even though he’s _learning_. It’s definitely not something he can teach Sasha, and if he can’t teach Sasha how to play hockey, what can he even teach him? 

So Luc figures he and Sasha can figure out how cars work together. 

Natalka comes with them out to the driveway, always toddling after her big brother, but pretty quickly gets distracted by the gravel in the flower borders, and Luc walks Sasha through what RoverGuy05 had said on his “Basics” video. Sasha climbs to stand on the Land Rover’s bumper and they stare at the engine together and Luc says, “This is the engine. These are the glow plugs. This is where we check the oil.” He pulls the oil dipstick out and shows Sasha how to wipe it off, how to check the oil level. He pulls his phone out and finds the video about serpentine belts and props his phone up on the engine. 

“Okay, mon fils,” he says, “I’ve never done this before, so we’ll just have to learn together, okay?” 

It’s not until he hears a little noise that he realizes Jacks and Crash are standing on the front stoop _staring_ at them. 

“Don’t look at me!” Crash says, Henri strapped to her chest in a baby-bjorn. “It’s not my fault I’m crying, I’m _hormonal_! I can’t help it! I made a baby! I’m breastfeeding! Do you know what kind of oxytocin swamp I’m trying to slog through right now?! My brain is goo and my body has been hijacked by my endocrine system! Please stop being so ADORABLE!” And then she stomps off. 

RoverGuy05 walks them through changing the belt. It takes about four times longer than it does in the video, but they get it done. Sasha loves getting his hands covered in engine grease and rolling around on the dolly Luc bought at CarQuest. He and Luc give each other high fives when they’re done and the Land Rover starts without making any horrible squealing noises, and then they wash their hands together in the garage sink, scrubbing the grease off with the tub of orange mystery chemical the guy at CarQuest told him he was going to need. Luc scoops Nat up out of the flower beds and trails after Sasha as he goes tearing through the house to the backyard yelling, “Momma, we fixed a truck!” 

He’s just about to ask Stick what he thinks about them barbequing for dinner tonight when Jacks’ hand settles around his biceps and he says, “Chants, I need you for a second.” Luc leaves Natalka with her dad and Jacks ushers him upstairs to the bedroom. Luc’s just about to ask what’s wrong, when Jacks pushes the door shut and then, all of a sudden, Luc’s shoved up against the door frame, Jacks mouth hot and insistent against his. 

“Uhhh,” Luc says as his mind tries to catch up and his dick lurches from 0 to 60 in half a second, “Qu'est-ce que c'est ça?”

“Fuck,” Jacks grunts, biting at Luc’s jaw, “you are so fucking… Luc….”

Luc shoves off the door, hands in Jacks’ hair, and walks them backwards towards the bed, but Jacks spins them around and pushes Luc onto the mattress. They don’t even take their shoes off, Jacks just shoves his shorts down to his ankles and pulls Luc’s down as well, pushing his tanktop up around his arm pits. Luc fumbles for the lube on the nightstand and Jacks opens the lid, pours it in a pool on Luc’s stomach.

Then they’re kissing again, dicks sliding together, trapped between them, and Luc wraps his legs around Jacks’, lost in the feeling of Jacks’ skin against his, the slick friction of their cocks together, the way the head of Jacks’ cock slides against his belly. “Fuck,” he hisses when Jacks gets a hand between them and his thumb rubs against the underside of Luc’s cock. “Fuck, Jacks.” 

Luc come fast, and hard, cock spurting over his own chest, and Jacks follows after, leaning up over Luc and stripping his cock, fast and hard. 

“Fucking crisse,” Luc mutters afterwards when Jacks has his face buried in Luc’s shoulder, and Luc’s hand is resting on Jacks’ sweaty back. “What was that all about? You have a mechanic kink you never told me about?”

“_No_ Jacks answers emphatically against Luc’s neck. “It’s a _you_ kink.”

Luc kisses him and then wiggles out from under him to pull his come-splattered tanktop off. “Ohhh,” he says, thinking about it, “this is your weird domestic shit kink where you get all horny when I do basic household tasks…”

Jacks grabs him and pulls him back down to be the little spoon. “It’s a _you_ kink.” He insists, wrapping a leg around Luc, “It’s a … Jesus, Luc, sometimes you’re just so… You’re so good, Luc, I love you so much.” 

Luc hums and settles back against Jacks’ chest. “Should we go downstairs and help with…” he offers a token protest. 

“We’re cuddling,” Jacks answers, firm. 

“Okay,” Luc smiles, “we’re cuddling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sveta and Stick's daughter Natalia, mentioned in this story, has many nicknames, as one might expect, but Natalka is used more frequently than Natasha by Sveta and therefore also by Luc.


	3. Voyeurism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voyeurism

It’s been two years since Luc got so fed up with his family being “flung all over the fucking world, Jacks, I need some kind of flight map to figure summers out,” and bought a house in <strike>the middle of</strike> the Atlantic.

Two summers of the Madeira house and Jacks is mostly able to walk into the master bath and not just break out into laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of it. He’d thought their bathroom in Quebec was pretty lux, with its big tub, walk-in shower, and granite counters.

This bathroom … well… it has a _tree_ in it. A fully alive, 15 foot tall tree. Just growing up towards the skylights next to the un-enclosed raised-dais-like shower area, like that’s a perfectly normal place to put a tree. The bathroom has a marble bathtub that can fit five average sized NHL players, the tree, and floor to ceiling glass windows for three of the four walls that make, with the house sprawling up and down the bluff as it is, for the entire room to look like it’s perched in the air, reaching into the sea.

The realtor had said that it was a marvel of architecture. Jacks finds it a disorienting and slightly overwhelming place to try to piss and brush his teeth first thing in the morning. Luc had taken one look at the shower, looked at the realtor and said, “What’s the point of a fancy shower if it doesn’t have a wall you can fuck someone against?”

“Well,” The realtor, an unflappable 65 year old Portugese woman who had the benign calm of someone who knew they were very soon going to make a truly staggering amount of money off a pair of rich idiots, had just shrugged and said, “Well, there’s always the tree.”

“No,” Jacks had said. “No. Luc, there could be spiders, I’m just telling you right now, it’s never going to happen.”

“So you’re buying it then?” the realtor had asked with a smile.

For all the ridiculousness Jacks isn’t laughing now when he walks, stumbles really, into the bathroom, bleary eyed, and realizes Luc is showering. The sun is rising on the Atlantic and Luc is standing under a curtain of water, backlit by the glow, head back and eyes closed, water sluicing off his chest, left hand working in fast, economic strokes as he jerks off.

There’s nothing seductive about it, except for how everything Luc does has an element of the seductive. It’s not purposeful, Jacks knows that, not normally, but he’s too much in his body, at any moment, so comfortable in his own skin that it creates an ease that just sinks into everyone else. And he’s graceful. Every moment, every pull and shift of his muscles has a fluidity and beauty of motion. Or maybe Jacks is just sleepy, and horny, and very much in love with his husband.

Jacks isn’t normally that into voyeurism, really. But everything about the bathroom feels like it demands attention, bold relentless exhibitionism, like it opens itself to the world, this room that is normally so private in a house, opens it and places it in the forefront, shifts something as simple as a shower into the literal and figurative center of your vision and integrates it into a background of stunning scenery so that you can’t help but not look anywhere else.

And he could, he _knows_ he could walk over there now, tree or no tree, wall or no walls, and Luc would be glad to see him. Jacks could tug off his shorts and go join him and Luc would suck him off, look up at him with wet eyelashes and a smile. Let Jacks wrap his hand around his dick and jerk him off instead. But it’s… nice… to watch him too. Jacks doesn’t always get a chance to watch him like this; with their hectic lives. The chances Jacks has to just unabashedly stare at his husband, unnoticed and undisturbed, are rare, and it feels precious.

Obviously, Luc is beautiful. He’s always been the most beautiful person Jacks had ever seen, but it’s not just that. It’s the way the light seems to cling to him. The way he just draws everything and everyone to him like a magnet, like a beacon, like a gravitational well, too big and too bright for the rest of the world.

Jacks is hard, achingly hard, but rooted to the tile. He wonders, a little, what Luc is thinking even though he knows, because they’ve talked about it before, that he probably isn’t thinking about much. Just skin and slick and friction. No morning sex because Jacks was still asleep, so Luc is just cleaning his pipes after his swim, and will be happy enough to think about sex, actual sex, later in the day (in the afternoon, if their recent pattern is anything to go by, during the siesta when everyone is napping and he and Jacks can shut their door and grind against each other, slow and lazy in the afternoon heat).

Jacks is so torn between wanting to go to him now and lick the water where it’s running down his check, bite at his wet jaw, and slide his dick between Luc’s thighs, and just… staying here. Watching Luc jerk himself off in a moment of quiet solitude.

Luc’s hand speeds up and Jacks bites his lip because he knows from the twist of Luc’s wrist and the way he’s pulling his palm further over the head that he’s about to come now and then Luc does - thighs clenching and ass tensing. He shoots into his hand and it rinses away. He sighs and shakes the water from his face and opens his eyes and sees Jacks. And smiles.

“Hey, mon chum, how long have you been there?”

“Long enough.”

Luc turns the water off and picks up his towel. Shakes his hair like a dog and then pushes it back from his face, wraps the towel around his waist. “And you didn’t join me? I wasted a perfectly good orgasm coming in my fist when I could have come in you?” He’s teasing, not pissed, loose and happy from his swim as he walks toward Jacks.

Jacks kisses him, long and slow and sweet and says, “Presumptuous.”

“Ah,” Luc says into his mouth, “well, you could have come in _me_ then.”

Jacks is still so hard, wants Luc with a deep ache, but he pulls away, just a little. “That’s a shower that’s made for someone to be looked at, not fucked. Neither one of us has knees that need to be kneeling on porcelain tile or river cobbles for any length of time.” He slides his hands down Luc’s flanks, and around, to squeeze his ass. “And I like looking at you.”

“You could look at me on the bed.”

“I could.” Jacks bites Luc’s lip, just a tease. “Maybe this afternoon. If you’re good.”

Luc shudders against him, like he’s the one that’s still hard and wanting, not the one that just came and says, “Fuck, Jacks, please.”

“This afternoon.” Jacks kisses him again. “Go get dressed, I have to try to piss without getting vertigo looking over the cliff.”

Luc snorts. “You’ve got to figure out how to piss with your dick pointing to the sky, bruh. I could help you take care of that but you want to wait until this afternoon.”

Jacks smacks his ass and Luc side steps away, laughing. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave you to the tree-spiders.”

“I hate this bathroom,” Jacks grumbles.

“No, you don’t.” Luc kisses him. “Hey, you want an omelette?”


	4. Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this one like an hour early technically, because I'm not going to have time tomorrow.

Buddy gives him a pair of winter driving gloves for New Year's. Supple black leather and soft red thinsulate lining. Luc’s sitting next to him on the couch as they open presents, and he reaches over to run his fingers along them. “These are nice,” he comments. 

He’s a little quieter than his previous levels of extroverted holiday party exuberance for a little while, and Jacks is embarrassed in retrospect to realize he didn’t notice, and didn’t connect it. In his defense, Luc was only quieter for a little while, until Temi had come out dressed as Father Frost to a round of laughter and applause. 

It was -20C in Edmonton when they played there two nights ago, and it’s a drizzly 45F in Seattle tonight. Jacks leaves the heavy great coat and warm mittens in the hotel room, and slides his jacket on as they get ready to leave for dinner. On the ride down the elevator to the lobby, Luc keeps his hand on Jacks’ shoulder, thumb rubbing idly over the black leather. 

There’s chit chat with the team, waiting for the rest of the guys to straggle down, that carries over on their walk towards towards the cars. Jacks pulls his gloves on as they’re stepping outside and Luc’s arguing with Bergie about the best Tupac single (Luc is very adamant that it’s “Hail Mary”; he’s right, but Jacks is not getting into that argument). There’s a second, just a second -- a stutter in Luc’s rant as it’s just momentarily derailed, a second where his eyes flick from Bergie to Jacks’ hands -- before he says, “Look, Bergie, the opening stanzas of ‘Hail Mary’ are legendary. I’m not saying ‘All Eyez on Me’ isn’t _good_, I’m just saying it’s not ‘Hail Mary’.” 

Jacks may have missed it at New Year’s, he blames the champagne, but he doesn’t miss it this time. He throws his arm over Luc’s shoulder as they pile into the Lyft and lets his gloved hand fall against the side of Luc’s neck when he does it. Luc shivers, all over, skin goose pebbling underneath Jacks’ hand. 

The Lyft driver has a lot of opinions about Luc and Bergie’s discourse. She agrees with Luc, so Luc is instantly her best friend. She and Luc agree that Tupac was a modern John Donne and Jacks’ keeps his hand brushing against the side of Luc’s neck, counting all the times Luc takes a bigger breath whenever Jacks moves his fingers just slightly against his throat, while Luc listens to the Lyft driver expound upon “horny metaphysical poets.” 

Jacks can’t exactly keep his gloves on in the restaurant without getting a rightfully massive chirping. But he takes his time taking them off, and doesn’t miss the way Luc’s eyes track the way the leather slides off his hands. He orders oysters for them as an appetizer, rests his hand on Luc’s thigh under the table as Luc tips his head back and swallows them raw. 

Jacks knew Luc kinda had a thing about his jacket, but if he’d been asked he would have said it probably had more to do with Luc reminiscing about their youth. That he liked it because it reminded him of Jacks’ old jacket. He didn’t realize it was also a leather thing, _in general_.

Two-glasses-of-wine-and-a-plate-of-oysters Luc has lost all attempts at subtlety on the car ride home. “I like the way your jacket smells,” he says, shameless, nose buried in Jacks’ shoulder. 

“I know,” Jacks says and closes his fingers around Luc’s wrist to feel him shudder. 

“This is so grossly like watching parents flirt,” Rosie laments. 

The great thing, the amazing thing, about being out now, is that Jacks can just -- tip Luc’s head up, gloved fingers resting under his chin, and kiss him, slow and sweet and dirty. 

Rosie says, “Wow, fined.”

Bergie boos and throws an Andes mint at them. 

The Lyft driver (this one sadly without Tupac opinions) says, “Oh, hun, you guys can just keep doing that as much as you like, don’t mind me.”

In the hotel, Jacks slides Luc’s suit coat off his shoulders. His shirt’s warm underneath Jacks’ hands and Jacks tugs at his belt and Luc’s breath hitches. “Fuck, Jacks,” he murmurs as Jacks slides his fingers in the waist of Luc’s pants to unbotton them. He’s hard, straining against the fabric under Jacks’ hands, and Jacks gives him a stroke through his briefs when his pants fall to the ground.

He’d thought he was going to strip Luc down completely, but when Luc steps out of his pants and oxfords, and is standing there in just his shirtsleeves, blacks straps of his shirt stays/sock garter combo framing the lines of his body as seductively as any lingerie, he thinks maybe he’ll just keep him that way instead. 

“You look so fucking hot,” he says, and kisses him again. Luc’s mouth is wet when Jacks pulls away, and wetter still when he traces Luc’s lip with his thumb. Luc sighs, and his mouth just opens to him, tongue stroking the leather. Jacks lets the palm of his hand cup Luc’s jaw and Luc groans. 

“Who knew you were such a leather slut,” Jacks murmurs. 

“I like the way it feels,” Luc answers, “and the way it smells. And the way it looks on you.” 

Jacks drags his wet fingers down Luc’s throat to the buttons of his shirt collar. 

The logistics are a little complicated, undressing suit-Luc. For someone so dedicated to the fight against t-shirts having sleeves, Luc doesn’t really do suits in half measures. Sure, his tie is shoved somewhere in his pocket, but Jacks doesn’t need to have his fingers playing at Luc’s neckline, or even to have seen him dress this evening, to know he’s wearing an undershirt.  
He thinks about telling Luc to un-do his own cufflinks as he works the shirt open, but then he thinks about Luc, kept crisp and tight by the elastic of shirt stays. About Luc’s Italian style suits that lack the added range of motion from the English style double vents that almost everyone else in the league prefers. He pulls the shirt off Luc’s shoulders and lets it hang around his waist, caught at his wrist by his cufflinks, held by the stays around his thighs. 

“Look at you.” He runs his hands down Luc’s flanks and watches him shiver. “You like it, all this holding you tight, wrapping you up.”

“Yes,” Luc sighs. “Yes, Jacks.” 

Jacks pushes the undershirt up over Luc’s pecs and, finally, there’s all that hot bare skin. He teases his thumb around one of Luc’s nipples and Luc groans and leans into it. He’s desperate sounding, flushed and shivery, pupils blown.

“What do you want?” Jacks asks, “I’d love to finger you with these, but honestly, I like them too much to ruin. Maybe one day I’ll buy a pair that aren’t as nice and see how many fingers I can stuff up your hole while I wear them?”

There’s a wet spot in the front of Luc’s briefs and Luc doesn’t manage to say anything except a soft, shaky “Fuck, Jacks…” 

“Would you like that?” Jacks asks, moving closer to stand flush up against Luc, and pinching his other nipple. “Seeing what these feel like inside you?”

Luc’s dick twitches against his leg and he answers, if you can call it that, just a low, groaned, “hhnnng,” and he tries to lean forward, to kiss Jacks’ mouth. Jacks has never seen Luc go down, blissed out so fast like this, without rope before. 

“I think,” Jacks says, using his other hand to hold Luc back, just by a fraction of an inch, fingers closing around his throat, not squeezing, just holding, with a gentle pressure, “that I’m going to jerk you off, but if you get come on my gloves, I’m going to be _pissed_.”

Jacks gets Luc out of his briefs -- Luc can’t really do it himself easily, with his shirt all caught up around his arms -- and laid out on the bed, and then lies down next to him, pulling Luc against him so he’s flush against the leather of Jacks’ jacket. He bites at Luc’s neck, and runs his hand up his thigh, rubs his palm over Luc’s balls just to watch him moan and buck his hips, desperate to get more of the feeling, before finally wrapping his hand around Luc’s dick. Luc starts a steady chant of “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” as Jacks strokes him. It’d be too dry, probably, except Luc’s leaking like a faucet, head wet and glistening and Jacks doubts whether the gloves won’t be a mess anyway, come or no come. He gets his other arm around Luc so they’re spooning, basically, and he can tug and pinch at Luc’s nipples, squeeze Luc’s pecs with the hand he’s not jerking him with. 

He sucks a kiss behind Luc’s ear and fuck he’s so hard, his dick is pressing against the zipper of his pants and it’s uncomfortable as fuck, but Luc, blissed out and lost like this is the hottest thing on the planet and all Jacks wants to do is make him come. 

“Are you going to come, Chants?” he asks. “Are you going to come, wrapped up in me?”

Luc sobs, and gasps, and Jacks didn’t need to worry about come dribbling on his gloves because he shoots like a rocket onto his abs and the bed, and Jacks squeezes his dick, and bites Luc’s shoulder while Luc shudders through the aftershocks. 

As soon as he’s done, Jacks tears one of the gloves off with his teeth. Luc rolls over onto his back and Jacks unbuttons his pants and gets his dick out, jerking himself hard and fast to the sight of Luc’s blown pupils and sex drunk face. His come splatters all over Luc’s chest. Jacks sags down the bed next to him. 

“Fuck.” He groans a few minutes later. “Wow. Fuck.”

“Hnggggg” Luc grunts back, still apparently mostly nonverbal, but the grunt sounds more like himself. 

“That was…”

“Ouais,” Luc says, and then finally rolls around and says, “Fuck, what a mess, Jacks, what the fuck did you do to my shirt, get me out of this.” 

Jacks folds the shirt back up so Luc can fumble at his cuff links and toss them on the bedside table, and Jacks sweeps the shirt off the bed to the floor, and Luc sprawls out on his belly and giggles, “Fuck, that was wild for just a handie.” 

“Hmmmm,” Jacks agrees and kisses him. “You know it’s too bad you’re so, like… fundamentally unsuited to the leather scene.”

Luc makes a noise of assent somewhere in his throat. Jacks can just see how terribly Luc at a leather club would go down, but…. “I mean, it’s too bad, because, I could buy a pair of leather chaps, to wear over my jeans, and you could kneel between my legs and suck me and if you did a good enough job I might let you get yourself off rubbing against my leg.” 

Luc freezes -- every muscle in his body goes tense -- and then just loosens and he groans, low and needy. “Jacks, fuck, are you trying to get me all worked up again?” 

“I mean, I could order those and we could do that at home,” Jacks hums, like he’s having to think about it, like it’s not already mentally at the top of his to-do list, like he’s not going to order them as soon as he steps inside the bathroom to piss and can fish his phone out of the pocket of his pants. 

“Get fast shipping,” Luc says and rolls on top of him to kiss him. “And order Buddy a fruit basket or something too.”


	5. Pain play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 - Pain play  
Hank/Manon/Duncs

October means when Manon goes to Zitacuaro, hockey is just starting and Duncs is still working on flipping a house that’s been riddled with delays before it starts snowing, and so the two of them stay in Toronto. 

It’s normal and fine, until it occurs to both of them that they’ve been cohabitating three days like an old married couple with no Manon in between and then it becomes fine, but sort of funny. Like a long extended married couple joke where they keep calling each other dear and not admitting that they mean it. Hank comes home tired and Duncs has made the sort of casserole that looks exactly like what Hank always assumed people in the Prairies cooked. Hank takes off his suit and changes into jeans and they eat dinner together at the table and talk about their days. Hank does the washing up and Duncs stands next to him in his sock feet, puts the leftovers into tupperware, and dries the casserole dish when Hank washes it, bitching the whole time about subcontractors. 

They sit together on the couch and Hank doesn’t give a shit, really, about the Sabres vs the Avs, and neither does Duncs, so they watch some documentary about how the Romans built ships. Hank is only half paying attention, reading a book on his Kindle. They’re not expecting a call from Manon -- she’s hiking, with spotty reception when she’s not in towns. The couch is big enough for both of them to have their legs up, sitting sidewise, and Hank snugs his toes up under the blankets on Duncs’ lap to keep them warm. 

Hank is halfway through a chapter when he feels the weight of Duncs’ stare. He looks up and Duncs is just looking at him. Speculative like. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Duncs says and goes back to the TV. As far as Hank can tell, being a Roman soldier on a galley was a pretty shit job. Not too sparing with the lash, those Romans. 

He’s just finished the chapter and is turning the page to a next one when he feels Duncs looking at him again. “What?” he asks. Again. 

“It’s just… I don’t know. I guess I always thought you’d be… you know.” 

“I know?” 

“Well. I don’t know. Kinkier. I guess.” 

Hank blinks. “You’ve got an awful lot of opinions about how I fuck for a straight man who’s not getting fucked by me.” 

Duncs just hums and doesn’t rise to that bait at all. “I mean with Manon.” 

Hank doesn’t even know what to say to that, so he goes back to his book. 

Duncs pinches his toe. 

“Ouch, fucker.” He shakes his foot out of Duncs’ grasp and kicks him in the thigh. “What does that even _mean_?”

“I just.. I don’t know, I guess before I ever saw you two together, I figured you’d be more, like...” he jerks his head towards the TV. 

“Like… an imperial army that employs corporal punishment through physical violence. Wow, Duncs, glad to know you think I’m a shithead.” 

“No. Asshole. Not… I just thought you’d be into the whips and chains type thing. But you and Manon are really… you’re really gentle with her. Gentlemanly.” 

“Yes.” Hank says, “because I love her, and I care about her, and because I’m not that kind of asshole who hurts women. Thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

“Okay, Hank, you know I’m not talking about _that_, I’m talking about kink. I _know_ you know about healthy kink. Safe, sane, and consensual. Not like … hurting women. Jesus christ. You know there are lots of people in healthy, happy relationships who get all freaky with some pain. I just figured you’d be one of those guys.” 

“Because… you figured I like hurting people.” 

Duncs shrugs awkwardly. “Okay, but you do... a little, don’t fucking… I’m not saying you're like some kind of… Hank, I _know_ you. You know I know you. You like.. Oh, fuck, nevermind. Whatever.” 

“I don’t hurt women,” Hank says, firm. “I know there’s kink and there’s BDSM or whatever, but I don’t.” 

“Okay,” Duncs hums, “but I mean, there’s three of us in this thing, and I’m not a woman.” 

Hank grits his teeth and swallows down his first retort. Then he reaches out and touches Duncs’ wrist that he knows must be aching after the day he’s had. “This doesn't hurt enough for you?” 

“Asshole,” Duncs half sighs, half laughs, clearly getting exasperated with him. 

“I just.. Okay. Maybe.” Hank says, “Maybe when I was young and … the world is different now, Duncs. My whole… I hurt. I _hurt_ every single day now. You do too. We’re old, and we know what pain is, not just pain in the moment, but pain that never goes away. Why would I want to add any more to anything that anyone is carrying.” 

Dunc hums and wiggles his toes again Hank’s thigh. “But sometimes it’s different, probably, when its a pain you can negotiate, a pain you can control, that you ask for, not the kind that never leaves.” 

“Maybe,” Hank says. “Is this your roundabout way to ask me to go buy a cat o’ nine tails?” 

“No.” 

“Well, then why are we even talking about it? I’m not going to… flog Manon, and if you don’t want it, then that’s that, right?” 

“Manon isn’t a dumbass hockey player with arthritis in all her joints. She’s pretty spry for her thirties. She does yoga.” 

“Great.” Hank snaps, slamming the cover of his Kindle closed and shoving it into the cushions, “I still think I’ve already reached my quota of hurting her for a lifetime so you’ll pardon me if I’m not jumping at the chance to rig her up to a Saint Andrew's just for kicks.” 

“But you haven’t hurt her.” 

“I. ALMOST. KILLED HER!” Hank snarls. 

“Bro,” Duncs says, soft and sad, “No. Faulty brakes on a truck almost killed her and crushed your leg. You didn’t do that.” 

“I could have swerved faster. Fastest reflexes in the league and I couldn’t …” 

“Brother, you got to let that shit go. Guilt will eat you alive, and it’s not your fault.” 

“Fuck you, what do you know about it.” 

The thing about being in a relationship with your buddy where you’re dating because you’re dating the same woman even though you’re not fucking each other is that they’re still _sleeping in the same bed_. Manon’s bed. And she’s not even here. So when Hank storms off to bed to brush his teeth too hard and change into pajamas and sulk for 30 minutes before turning the light off, Duncs still comes to bed and rolls over on his side, next to Hank, wraps his arm and pulls him close. 

“Sorry,” Duncs says, “I didn’t mean to pick at a scab.” 

“Sorry,” Hank says, feeling all together too responsible and mature and domestic, “for snapping and stomping off.” 

They don’t kiss and make up because they don’t kiss. They just lie there, wrapped in each other, and fall asleep. 

January means a winter trip to Amsterdam for the three of them during the Leafs’ bye week. Manon takes them to some bakery near the redlight district. “Hmmm,” she jokes as they walk past a window display of a sexshop, “what do you think, do I need a latex catsuit, Mike?” 

“They look hot.” Duncs licks stroopwafel syrup off his fingers while he answers. “But do you really want to have to cover yourself in baby powder?” 

“Ugh,” Manon groans, “no, I don’t. Oh, what are those, they look like earrings, they’re pretty.” 

“They’re not for your ears,” Hank says, eyeing the gleaming metal devices laid out on a velvet display tray. They are intricate enough to look like big decorative art deco earrings, but they’re definitely not. 

Manon looks at them some more, fascinated. 

“They’re for your nipples,” he adds, when she’s still looking at them. “The teeth dig in and the.. Decorative parts add weight and pressure as they dangle.” 

“Ouch,” she hums. 

“Yes. So, lunch? We’re meeting the camera crew there early, right, for you to film? Do Duncs and I get to eat behind the scenes or are we waiting until after you guys have all the footage you need?” 

In the middle of March, Manon straddles him in bed, and he slides into her pussy. She kisses him, deep and dirty with a lot of tongue, and Hank can feel the mattress dip as Duncs knee-walks in between Hank’s legs. Duncs kisses the back of Manon’s neck and Hank can just barely see the movement of his hand behind her pussy as it rubs over her asshole. 

“Not there tonight,” Manon says, “I want you both in my pussy.” 

“I don’t know if we’ll fit, babe,” Hank murmurs. 

“You’ll fit, please. Mike, please.” 

“You going to deny a woman what she wants, Hank?” Duncs kisses her neck again. 

“Get the lube,” Hank manages to get out as she clenches around him, “we don’t want to tear her. Babe, Duncs and I aren’t small, it’s going to be a lot.” 

“I want it,” she gasps and bites his neck. 

It is a lot. It’s a lot just for Hank, the feeling of Duncs sliding into that impossible space, pushing up against him. He can’t imagine how much it is for Manon but she gasps and whimpers and writhes between them. 

“Does it hurt?” he asks her, voice rough and shaking. 

“Yes.” She sinks her nails into his chest and whimpers and says, “Yes, it’s …. It’s so much.” 

“Too much?” He kisses her shoulder and makes himself take a breath, makes himself calm down, and think and not….

“No,” she moans, “no, not too much, just enough, Mike, move.” 

Hank tries to think about the clench of her cunt and the slide of Duncs’ dick against his own when he comes, but mostly he thinks about the tremor of Manon between them, the shuddering writhing and the way she gasps and moans, half caught between pleasure and pain and wanting more. 

May means tensions running sharp and high through the front office as the Leafs gear up for a post season that they barely fell into. It means spring in the air, and everyone’s blood rising like sap, and hockey players acting like idiots who can’t think of anything but their stick or their dick, and it means Manon home in between filming, acting… weird. 

If he had to say how she was acting he would say that she was acting like a brat. Coy and teasing and… annoying. But nothing about Manon is brat-like. She’s earnest and diplomatic and frequently hilarious but never exactly like this. 

“Manon, what the fuck?” he says after she’s finishing flicking a rubber band at him like they’re 12 year olds flirting in study hall. It was annoying when he was 12, it’s really annoying when he’s trying to type an email to Roger about the lineup for Saturday’s game. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She leans over him at the table and the neckline of her blouse gapes in front of him. “Was I being bad?” 

“You’re being something.” 

“Naughty?” she asks. 

What the… Hank looks up and she’s still standing there, with one hip out and one leg pressing against his. “Manon…”

“Maybe if I’m bad I need to be punished?” She drags a hand over her chest. It’s… Manon just isn’t _coy_. It’s like the world’s cheesiest most awful porn leadup. 

“No,” Hank says and then when she moves her hand to him, he grabs her wrist, “Manon.” He looks over her shoulder and there’s fucking Duncs, leaning against the armchair. “Is this… are you two conspiring? Manon. I don’t. I don’t want that.” 

She looks like her feelings hurt, which was very much not what he was going for. And she looks less confident, which is also terrible. He runs his thumb gently over her wrist. “Babe, you’re beautiful, and I always want you, of course, but I don’t -- this is not…”

“It’s not what you’re into.” 

“It’s not what I’m into.”

“Mike thought…”

Hank blows out a breath. “I’m not. I know other people… are different, and to each their own, but for me it’s got nothing to do with punishment. It’s just because I like it. I’m just… like that. There’s no rhyme, or reason for it. It’s not. I just.” He doesn’t say I just _like it_ when people hurt. I just like it when you cry. Sometimes. But not all the time. Not all the times you cried and it was heartbreaking and awful and terrifying. He wants to say, _I just want to carve myself into your flesh and it terrifies me._

“There’s no other reason for it,” he says instead, “I don’t -- there’s nothing to justify. It just is. And there’s nothing about what we do that I would ever want to think of as being like a punishment, for anyone, but especially not you.” 

Manon sits in his lap and Hank keeps running his thumb over her wrist and Duncs leans against their chair, and Manon says, “I bought us a present, but now you may not want it.” 

“I’m sure I’ll like it, if you got it and thought of me.” Hank kisses her lips, just briefly. 

Manon slides off his lap and goes to rummage through her purse and Hank looks at Dunc and Duncs looks back and shrugs at him, like “we’re trying here, buddy, work with us,” and then Manon has a box for him. It’s flat and black, about the size of something you’d put a necklace in, except when he opens it there’s the ridiculous art deco nipple clamps from Amsterdam. There’s a chain coiled between them and a third clamp in there too. 

Hank runs his finger along the chain, pulling it up so it slips over his fingers. “Manon,” he sighs. 

“You liked them,” she says. “I saw that you liked them.” 

Hank looks at her.

“_I like them_,” she adds. 

“You like how they look. You might not like how they feel.”

“Then I should try and find out.” 

“These are going to hurt more,” Hank says, when they’re all in the bedroom, and Duncs is naked, leaning against the headboard, and Manon is sitting cross legged in front of him. “The’ve got teeth that are going to hurt like a bitch, not just rubber clamps like the ones you’ve probably seen before.” 

“I’ll let you know if it’s too much.” 

Hank doesn’t put them on, right away. He kisses her and then he kisses her breasts. Licks and nibbles at the plush swell of the underside of them. Sucks on her nipples and teases them with his tongue until she’s moaning and wet, flushed and needy and grinding against the two fingers he’s got buried in her cunt. 

“Okay, first one,” he says and fastens it onto her nipple. It hurts. He can tell by the way her legs try to pull in on themselves, by the way she tenses all over and presses her mouth together and his fingers twitch to take it right back off again. 

But Duncs wraps his arms around her, from behind, and pulls her flush up against his chest, holding her tight to him in a bear hug, mouth pressed against her ear. “Breathe through it, babe, are you okay? You want them off, or is it easing up now?” 

“Don’t take it off,” she gasps. 

“Don’t." Hank pleads, "Don’t do this just for me.” 

“No, it feels, god, I don’t know, _I don’t know_, but don’t take it off.” She won’t stop squirming, legs moving, and Hank licks at her nipple through the clamp and she whimpers. 

“Don’t hold it in.” He drags his thumb over her mouth. “If we do this, babe, I have to hear you, I have to know what you’re thinking, how much it hurts, I can’t do this if I don’t know what you’re thinking. I have to know you’re talking to me, and you’ll tell me to stop if you want.”

She cries, then, louder, and bucks against him, and says, “fuck, I don’t know, I don’t know, I can’t think, put the other one on.” 

He does and her cries are wavering and loud and sweet, and pushes two fingers back into her pussy and she bucks against his hand and whines and she’s so wet. “Do you want the third one on?” he asks, because he’s dizzy with how hot it is, how sweet her trembling feels, because he wants her to scream again. 

There’s a pause and then she whispers, “Yes,” and Hank clamps the third one on her clit and she _wails_ and arches like she's struck by a live wire, straining against Duncs’ arms, shrieking and begging and pleading and Hank almost comes right there, hand nowhere near his dick. 

Hank lifts at her legs and says, “Babe, I want you to sit on Duncs’ dick, okay, I want you nice and full sitting there while I play with you, okay?” and she spreads her legs, starts panting, “Yes yes yes fuck me fuck me, fuck me, Mike.” 

Somehow they maneuver themselves and she sinks onto Duncs’ dick. He hisses and she sighs, like it’s a relief, and then tries to bounce, only to whimper and stop when the bouncing weight of clamps digs into her nipples even more. Hank connects the chains and gives an experimental little tug. 

“Hold her, Duncs,” he says, “and don’t you fucking move either. She just needs something to sit on and keep her full, no fucking.” 

“Christ, Hank,” Duncs huffs, “you don’t ask a lot. Do you know what she feels like right now. I’m going to nut--”

Hank flicks his balls. “No, you’re not. Don’t you dare.” 

“Asshole,” Duncs mutters, but keeps still. 

Hank pushes Manon’s thighs wider and makes him room for himself. “Now,” he says, licking at her swollen labia, “I’m going to eat you out, and you be as loud as you like, okay?” 

It’s the sweetest 10, 15, he doesn’t know how many minutes he can remember in ages; her thighs shake and he licks at her swollen painful clit pinched between the teeth, sucks on it, and licks at her lips and where’s she’s stretched around Dunc’s dick. She moans and sighs and _cries_ big fat tears streaming down her face, cheeks red and chest and neck flushed pink. Finally, Duncs’ legs are shaking too, and Manon cries, “Please, please, please, Hank, please let me come, let me come! Let him fuck me!”

Hank sits back on his heels. His dick is leaking and red and he just wants to shove himself inside her but he says, “Can you come with the clamps on?” 

She sniffles and looks at him with big glassy eyes and Duncs’ jaw is tense, pupils huge, like he’s been two seconds from coming for ages, hanging on by a thread, and she nods. “Yes,” she says, “yes, I think so.” 

“But you want to get fucked.” It’s not exactly a question. 

“Yessssss,” she pleads, “please, Hank, please.” 

“You can come, and you can get fucked,” he assures her, “but you have to fuck yourself on Duncs’ dick.” 

Her eyes go huge. 

“Yes.” He nods. “It will bounce the clamps and it will hurt more. Can you do that? Will it be too much?”

She sets her jaw and starts to push up. Honestly, Hank thinks her legs might be too shaky for her to really get the strength she needs to really ride Duncs, but Duncs helps, lifting her up in time of the push of her thighs. The ridiculous art deco clamps bounce and sway and lurch with her thrusts and Duncs’ toes and fingers are white knuckled as he holds her and thrusts and tries not to come. 

“That’s it, babe, fuck yourself.” He finally lets himself touch his cock. “Fuck yourself and let yourself feel it.” 

“I’m so close,” she gasps, “I can’t, but I’m so close,”

“Hank,” Duncs groans, “Hank, I’m not gonna,” 

Hank rolls down between her legs again, licks at her, then lifts the clamp off her clit and _sucks_. She _screams_ and clenches all over, legs clamping around his head and shoulders and Dunc tenses all over and grunts and Hank can feel the pulse of his dick as it comes inside her, pumping and twitching next to his hand. Hank comes too, dick pressed into his other hand against the comforter, and it seems simultaneously transcendent and unnoticeable next to the ecstasy and sobs of Manon. 

He remembers, a few seconds later, to take the clamps off her nipples, but Duncs is already moving to do it. They each get one, and Manon whimpers but mostly seems too blissed out. She’s boneless and flushed and Hank rolls onto his side, kissing her side. He’ll get up in two seconds but his brain is….

Duncs gets up. “I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, “I’m gonna get a washcloth.” 

“I can…” Hank protests. He was...the dom… the top, whatever you want to call it, in this situation, he should be… 

Duncs puts a hand between his shoulder blades and pushes him back down. “You look like you got punched in the solar plexus, and all I really had to do was sit there with my dick somewhere nice and warm and try not to come. I got it. Hold her.” 

Hank holds her. He brushes her sweaty hair off her neck and kisses her and tells her he loves over and over, how beautiful she was. How perfect. 

“We’re in a fight,” she mutters, drowsy sounding and sated. 

Beside them Duncs snorts and runs a washcloth gently between her legs. 

“Was it too much?” Hank asks, worry creeping into the endorphin haze. 

“No. How dare you keep the best sex of my life from me for so long.” She elbows him. Her elbows are sharp and pointy. “We’re in a fight.” 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I just… it’s complicated. Pain, and …” 

“It was _amazing_,” she breathes.

Hank huffs out a laugh. “Okay. But,” he feels compelled to add, “It’s not all -- some of it’s… more. In my head. Some of the things might be too much.” 

“So we talk about it.” Duncs says, firm. 

“We talk about it,” Manon agrees and bites his thumb. 

Hank grins, reluctantly, and kisses her hair again. “Okay.” he says, “we talk about it.” 

“And you make us waffles in the morning,” Manon adds. 

“Okay. I make waffles in the morning.”

“With strawberries.” 

“Okay, with strawberries. I love you. Both.”

“Love you both.” Manon mutters, already half asleep. And Duncs throws the washcloth vaguely in the direction of the hamper and climbs behind Hank, wraps his arm around both of them and says, “Love you both” into Hanks hair, and Hank falls asleep.


	6. Size Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 - Size Difference

Jimmy would just like it noted that he is _a perfectly reasonably sized human_. He is not _small_. 5’10” is a perfectly reasonable height for a man in the United States, and above average in lots of places in the world. And also, he would like it noted that 5’10” in no way makes him a _twink_. For one: he is far too busy to be a twink. Secondly, he isn’t _petite_, okay, and thirdly--

Thirdly, Mavs Teixeira is the abnormally sized one in the relationship and the fact that Mavs is _built like a fridge_ doesn’t automatically make Jimmy a twink. Mavs is just a giant. 

The benefit of dating someone who looks, as one Calgary news article put it, “like Canada built him in a lab somewhere,” is that all of a sudden a whole world of sexual possibilities open up that weren’t an option when Jimmy was dating other men is own, _perfectly average_ size. 

Like the fact that Mavs can just pick him up, in the middle of the room, and fuck him. Like, sure, if they find their way to a wall, that’s fine, but Mavs doesn’t _need to_. He can just hold him there with Jimmy’s legs wrapped around his muscled waist, and Jimmy’s arms wrapped around his neck, or clinging to his ridiculous biceps, and _fuck him_. For as long as Jimmy likes. 

“Don’t come yet,” Jimmy gasps, “I’m so close, don’t stop.” 

Mavs just grunts and keeps lifting Jimmy up and down on his dick and it’s amazing, and surreal, and Jimmy has no idea how someone with the personality of a golden retriever puppy manages to just fuck with all the endurance and strength of a mack truck, but honestly? Dream boyfriend. 

“That was way excellent,” Mavs says afterword, lying on his back in the middle of the living room floor, a thin sheen of sweat making all of his many many muscles glisten infuriatingly. “You look most pulchritudinous in my jersey.” 

Jimmy does not look pulchritudinous. He looks ridiculous because Mavs’ jersey is Mavs sized and nearly swallows him whole. The cuffs hang down around his finger tips, and the hem hangs low enough he could probably safely wear it is as a very short dress. He suspects Mavs’ reaction has less to do with how objectively good he might or might not look in it and more to do with whatever caveman part of Mavs’ brain just really liked seeing Jimmy with TEIXEIRA plastered to his back. 

“I’m drowning in it,” he corrects. 

Mavs shrugs his shoulders against the carpet and says, “It’s an actual game jersey, it’s made to go over my pads, of course it’s huge on you.” 

Because -- because that’s the amazing thing, really, about Mavs. He’s never an asshole, about his size. He never likes to make people feel small. He never _looms_. “I like being the little spoon, sometimes,” Mavs had told him, earnestly, the first time they’d spent the night together, “but I’m most willing to share the big spoon duties too.” 

Mavs is the big spoon that night, and Jimmy doesn’t even feel guilty about how much he loves it, about how amazing it feels the way Mavs can just wrap around him, completely. For one, it’s two days before the first of October and there’s _already snow_ in Calgary. It’s cold, and Mavs is big, and warm, a giant space heater in their bed, and the heavy strength of his arms as he pulls Jimmy close feels like nothing could ever get through, like Jimmy is safe, and warm, and … kept. Which he’ll probably be infuriated with himself for thinking in the morning but right now, it just feels nice. Like he doesn’t have to worry about anything. 

Jimmy wakes up the next morning with Mavs’ ridiculously proportional dick nudging at his ass through his boxers, and Mavs’ hand stroking softly at his lower belly, sweeping up to his chest and then down again, lower. He shifts and leans back against Mavs’ chest, grinding against that big dick, and tilts his neck to make room for Mavs’ mouth. 

Mavs kisses his throat, and anchors his hands on Jimmy’s waist, to roll him over on top, but Jimmy says, “No, like this, let’s stay just like this, fuck me like this,” because he doesn’t want the feeling to sink away in the morning, he wants to get fucked with Mavs surrounding him, wants to feel Mavs’ mass, wants those huge arms wrapped around him. 

If he lets Mavs do it, Mavs will sit up and reach for the lube on the dresser, and Jimmy wants to stay _just like this_ for as long as he can, so he wraps his fingers around Mavs’ hand and pulls it up to his mouth, sucks two of Mavs’ fingers to get them sloppy wet. 

“Just like this?” Mavs asks against his jaw, when he drags the fingers out of Jimmy’s mouth and pulls the waistband of Jimmy’s boxers down, rubs Jimmy’s spit around his hole.

Jimmy moans and pushes against the fingers, wanting them inside, wanting Mavs in him and around him and on top of him, wanting to feel the stretch of those big fingers. 

It’s an awkward position, to get a hand between them and finger him, but Mavs does it, until Jimmy groans in frustration and starts begging for his dick instead. “Want to feel it,” he moans and Mavs spits into his hand, and slicks up his dick and pushes in. 

It’s a lot. Mavs is a lot to take, normally, and even more with just spit and last night’s lube, but the stretch feels so good, Jimmy feels his gut clench and his skin prickle with heat as a flush sweeps over him. His dick throbs. “Fuck me,” he gasps, and Mavs wraps one leg over Jimmy and his arms lock around him like iron and he fucks him. 

It’s so good Jimmy might cry. 

They wind up sort of at an angle, Mavs half behind him, half on top of him, driving him into the bed. Mavs is so much. Everything about him is so much. Larger than life. His big body, and his big dick, and his big heart, big and warm and open and always there for Jimmy, no matter what Jimmy asks, and all of a sudden it feels like it’s too much, but not enough, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to cry or come, and Mavs’ wraps a hand around Jimmy’s dick at the same time he kisses the side of Jimmy’s mouth and Jimmy turns his head into the kiss and opens himself up to Mavs and comes and comes, clenching around Mavs’ dick, and Mavs groans into Jimmy’s mouth and pulls him tight and comes too. 

Mavs slips out of him, eventually, as their breath slows down, and the sheets are a mess, but that sounds like a problem for future Jimmy not now. 

“That was most excellent,” Jimmy says, turning over and rolling into Mavs’ side to lie in the crook of his arm with his face resting on Mavs’ sweat damp chest. 

“_You_ are most excellent,” Mavs smiles, and kisses his head, and Jimmy glances at the clock; five minutes, he probably has to lie here, until he needs to get up, and get showered and get to class on time. He snuggles in closer.


	7. Suspension/wax play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6 - Suspension and some wax play  
(Master Jackson teaches a rope class)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a rope rigger top person so I'm sure I got things wrong in this, but yay Jacks teaching a rope class.

As the people filed in and took their seats, Luc strips down to his Under Armour and squares his shoulders. Normally, Luc associates knowing he's about to get tied up with already sort of falling into that space where he can trust Jacks is going to make all the plays and Luc can just enjoy the ride. But this is a _demo_. It was Jacks teaching and Luc being the model, at least for the first half, and there were a lot of other people - not Jacks - around watching, and mostly Luc knew that the first part of tonight was going to feel less like _kink_ and more like Press Day in New York - a lot of Luc standing around, looking pretty and moving where he was told to move. 

“Alright,” Jacks begins, after he’s shut the door and come back up to the front of the room. “It’s after eight, so let’s get started. I’ll introduce myself for those of you that might not know me. Most people in this community, because it tends towards formality, call me Master Jackson, but you’re not obligated to. You can call me Oliver. Or Jackson. And yes. If I look familiar to you, if _we_ look familiar to you, we are who you think we are. I would appreciate it, though, if you kept kink spaces for kink, and didn’t bring sports into it. The format of tonight is going to start with me walking through some basic tips and tricks I’ve picked up through the years. I’ve got some specific areas that I want to cover and a few short walkthroughs and examples. Then we’ll open it up to questions, and I’ll do my best to cover any areas I may not have gotten to. Then they’ll be a demo -- I’ll be suspending my rope bottom in a rig I designed that puts very little strain on the wrists, elbows, and shoulders. It was in the sign-up sheet and the class description, but just to reiterate, that demo portion will be about 40 minutes long, my rope bottom will be nude for it, and there will be some wax play at the end. There’s a bathroom break before the demo begins, so if you’re not comfortable with any of those elements, you’ll be able to step out. After the demo, there’s some snacks and refreshments and we’ll clear away the chairs, and bring out some rope and matts, and you’re welcome to stay if you want to try anything you learned tonight. I’ll be walking around spotting and answering questions, along with Mistress Rowan, who I think you all know.

“Now,” he says, looking out at the room, “I know what you’re all thinking. I thought this class is supposed to be part of the Suspension for Non-Standard Bodies series. You guys look pretty _standard_ to me.” 

There’s a light chuckle through the room. Luc resists the urge to chirp Jacks for boring speech jokes. 

“In fact,” Jacks continues, “you’re probably thinking, if there’s anything nonstandard about this one,” he runs his hand over Luc’s flank, “it’s that he looks like he just stepped off the cover of Men’s Health. But I’ve been tying Luc up for twenty years, and through that twenty years he’s had four knee surgeries, one shoulder surgery, and ten broken bones. I’ve tied him up when he had four broken ribs. I’ve tied him up when he wasn’t weight-bearing and through the process of him transitioning post-surgery from wheelchair to crutches. Most of the times, in Luc’s life, where he’s been the most injured, in the most need of specialized adaptations to a kink lifestyle, have been the times where he _needed_ to be tied up the most, so. I’ve learned a lot, through those decades, mostly by trial and error, and I’m just here tonight to pass along what I have learned. There is no such thing as a standard body. We’re all just living our life in the body we’re in at the moment, and tonight is just finding ways to modify certain ties to make sure we get the most out of them for the bodies we have.” 

It was hard, a little bit, to listen to Jacks talk about all his injuries. Not that the injuries themselves were hard, but hard to listen to Jacks name them so specifically to a room full of people that weren’t Nordiques. It was so trained into Luc after years of the vague non answers of “lower body injury, 6-8 weeks.” Still, Luc isn’t playing hockey any more, it doesn’t matter if people know his knee is a vulnerability. 

Luc tunes out, for a while. He isn’t really interested in the technicalities of Jacks’ _craft_. He knows Jacks is damn good at it, and he appreciates the results, but mostly Luc likes to not pay attention, and just let himself be tied up. 

Jacks demonstrates some positions for Luc’s arms, then moves them to the matts to demonstrate tying his legs. Luc fights against falling into that fuzzy floating space his body wants to go to, with Jacks’ hand and Jacks’ rope on him, and concentrates instead on being a good model. 

Someone asks a question about kneeling and that’s something Jacks can talk about forever because everyone always wants people to kneel and Luc _can’t_ \- doesn’t really want to anyway, most of the time -- and can’t even if he did. Jacks talks for a long time with the group about alternatives. Luc floats, a little, bound as he is, with Jacks’ hand resting on the small of his back. 

There's more questions, and Jacks talks for awhile about Luc's knee replacement recovery and Luc definitely stops listening then. It’s nothing he wants to hear or think about again, and he just lets himself float, in a weird space where Jacks has him tied up, but Jacks is standing around answering questions like it’s a presser and he’s imagining, almost, what it would have been like, listening to Jacks say, “Well we’re just going to clean up our game, come in hard in the third period, and try to outscore them,” to the TSN reporter while Luc was next to him with his wrist tied to his ankle. 

Then, Jacks is untying him, and the room is breaking up and Luc realizes it must be the break period before the demo.

“You okay?” Jacks asks, rubbing Luc’s wrist. “You look a little foggy.” 

“Fine.” Luc shakes his head clear. “Just a weird… day dream, sorta. I’ll tell you later. I’m good.” 

Luc drinks half a Gatorade, and then goes to the men’s room to piss. He recognizes the faces of some people in there from the class but doesn’t try to engage with them - just does his business and washes his hands and heads back to the classroom. 

While everyone gets settled, Jacks runs his hands over all of Luc’s limbs, warm and big and comforting and asks Luc a familiar series of questions. Rowan has set out some electric tea candles and dimmed the ceiling lights. It’s not how Jacks and Luc normally play, but it’s nice, and Jacks lights the candles they’re going to use for the wax-play, and then they start. 

It’s good - Luc loves this suspension, but it’s also a little weird, because Jacks is pausing at every single knot and _talking_. Talking about the angle of Luc’s arms. The angle of the head of his humerus in his shoulder socket. About balancing weight. About patellas. And he’s so _thorough_, and Luc’s half caught between not listening at all, just drifting in the dim light and the coil of the rope around his flesh and not being able to stop listening to Jacks, in full Coach-Voice, breaking down a play. 

“I like this suspension,” Coach-Voice Jacks says from somewhere next to him, “because as you can see, it bends him beautifully, everything is accessible for me to touch, but there’s no stress, on any limbs. And with him arched, like this, you see, I can do this...” 

The wax hits Luc’s belly and he gasps, just a little. He doesn’t know why he wasn’t expecting it, except that he’d gotten lost in Jacks’ lecture. 

“Master Jackson,” someone asks, voice quiet but confident, “how would you adapt this for someone with less spinal flexibility? My sub has a rod in their spine."

“I’m glad you asked,” Jacks answers, “let me spin him just a little and you can see, this knot here. We can adjust the height of this knot, and that’s going to change the angle that he’s pulled back -- so, if I tied this higher, can you see, then his back--” 

Luc stops listening. He stops waiting for more wax even though he _wants it_. He just lets the ropes hold him and feels Jacks’ hands and enjoys it. 

Sometime later, the wax comes back. Luc’s not paying enough attention to know if there are more questions, but the wax drips onto his belly, onto the shaft of his dick, over his pecs, and Luc tries to strain into it because it feels _so good_. 

And then it’s done, and Luc is being lowered to the ground. The other half a bottle of Gatorade is brought up to his lips and he takes a sip. The classroom is emptying and Rowan is telling everyone else something about refreshments, and someone is folding up the chairs, and Jacks kisses him and says, “You did such a good job,” while brushing wax off his belly. 

Luc takes a big breath and feels himself come back into his head, that light airy cleaned out feeling, like a wind came through and blew all the cobwebs out of his spine. “I didn’t even do anything, that was all you, mon chum,” he says. His stomach growls and Jacks smiles at him. He looks so good, with his beard and his freckles. 

Luc leans up and kisses him and Jacks says, “I’m going to get you some food, will you be good here?” 

Here, as it turns out, is a couch at the very back of the classroom, with a blanket. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s fine. Hey, where did I leave my hoodie?”

“I’ll get it when I get the food, be back in 5 minutes.” 

Jacks comes back in just a few minutes, with a plate piled high with finger foods, and Luc’s track pants and hoodie. He brushes a few more wax bits off Luc, and Luc’s dick twitches, because he still hasn’t come, but he’s patient, that will come later tonight. He pulls on his pants, happy that’d he thought to bring the fleece lined ones, and pulls on the hoodie and pushes up underneath Jacks’ arm on the couch. 

Jacks’ holds a grape up to his mouth. “You did a good job. How was it?”

“Good.” Luc answers, “Weird. The whole lecture part of it was weird. I kept imagining you giving a presser with me all tied up next to you.”

Jacks feeds him a mini quiche and says, “That would probably have been the thing that finally made Don Cherry expire.” 

Luc laughs and licks at Jacks’ fingers and says, “I wasn’t paying attention to anything you said during the class, did it go well?”

“I think so. People had lots of good questions, and it’s good that they felt comfortable enough to ask them, and hopefully I gave them good answers.” 

“You’re a good coach. Don’t think I didn’t see what you did there, with that Men's Health line, Mr. March Cover this year.”

Jacks pinches his thigh. “I thought you said you weren’t paying attention to anything I said.” 

Luc just laughs. “When the class is over tonight and the club opens up, can we play more with the wax?” 

“Sure.” Jacks says, “I already asked Rowan if we can reserve one of the rooms. Just me and you, no presser,” he jokes.


	8. Competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7 - Competition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, a fool: What if did Kinktober? 31 days of KINK??? I can do that!  
My brain: hahahaha, *maybe* 10 of those days will be actual Kinktober fics, but the rest are just going to wind up being normal fics that vaguely relate to the prompt
> 
> Which is to say that this isn't a kink fic. I tried to write a kink fic, and this came out instead. It is definitely a fic about Crash's competitive spirit, and her drive to win, and have her life on her terms, and I would say that the first part definitely deals with how much winning turns Crash on as much as it does Luc, but the end half isn't kinky. Unless your kink is Crash's health, happiness, and great success in all her endeavors.

Three kids was the planned amount. Crash has Bells and works _hard_ to get competition ready again -- comes back to kill it, has a great surf at Pe’ahi, and then wins at Nazaré. 

And then gets bit by a shark at Jeffreys Bay. 

The rehab is brutal. The sheer muscle loss, physical muscle loss, is infuriating, like she just wanted to grab that chunk of quad back from the shark’s mouth. _She worked HARD for that muscle_. It took her YEARS to build that muscle. 

Crash rehabs in Quebec, and that’s good too because Luc is clearly _going through it_ adjusting to life without hockey, even after Nepal, and the kids are shook up, after the shark, and Jacks needs the extra hands, and honestly, it’s good, to close ranks and be there with everyone for a while. 

“This Everest shit.” Jacks buries his head in his hands over a cup of coffee one morning. “I just don't know. He’s trying, he says he's fine without it, but I can see… how am I supposed to...”

“Jacks,” she sighs, “I’m not the best person...” Because she can’t even think about what she’d do, if she had to stop surfing, but it wouldn’t be pretty. It'd probably be worse than mountain climbing. 

“God, you’re just alike.” Jacks leans his head back, eyes closed. 

“Yeah.” She doesn’t say sorry, because she’s not. But she is sympathetic. 

It takes longer than she’d hoped to get back to surfing. “You’re not a spry twenty-something anymore,” the doctor tells her, “these types of injuries are going to take longer to heal. Muscle is going to take a longer time to get back.” 

Crash narrows her eyes at him. He laughs. “And….. I’ve just made you more determined to prove me wrong, huh?” he asks. 

“Yup.” She pops the p on the end. 

So the months go by, over a year, really, and just like Luc had survived his trip up an exploitative capitalist testament to male-ego, so does Luc and Jacks’ marriage survive the transition out of hockey, which is good, but honestly Crash never doubted those outcomes. Crash goes from rehabbing in facilities in Quebec to getting back to surfing in Hawaii and Florianopolis and their house in Madeira.

Sometimes she thinks about the fact that Luc almost bought a house in the Azores instead, but then decided on Madeira because the surf would be better for Crash in the summer and her heart gets all tight. 

Bells goes to pre-school and Crash cries, and Crash goes back on the surfing competition tour. There’s a lot of media speculation about whether or not she’ll be able to come back but that just makes her more determined to shove it down their throats. 

She’s rusty, in qualifiers and then at Cloudbreak, but she feels like by the end she’s got her feet under her again. Chants and Jacks and the kids come for the Tahiti Pro and Crash _crushes it_. She gets just the right wave, a perfect barrel, the kind Teahupo'o is so famous for, everything just slots into place, and it’s flawless. Her second round feels even better, just one of those days where everything feels good. 

“First over all! That's my fucking BRO!” Luc picks her up on his shoulders while she hoists her trophy and then kisses her, big and exuberantly, when he finally sets her down. He tastes like limes. 

There’s a celebratory bonfire on the beach that night. Bells falls asleep after it gets dark, asleep on a blanket in the sand with her stuffed moose, curled up next to Loops’ daughter. Hank and Katya are running around on their own, but they’ve got Sasha with them, and Disko’s daughter. 

“You’ll keep an eye on them?” she asks Disko, “I need some alone time with their dads.” 

Disko just laughs and slaps her shoulder. Winning always just gets her blood thrumming, a burning coal of _want_ down in her belly that makes her feel insatiable. She wants Luc’s mouth. She wants to ride his face like she rode that perfect wave today. 

“I’m too old to have sand in my asshole,” Jacks says, “I hope you’re dragging us somewhere that’s not a sand-dune.” Crash is feeling benevolent and generous, so she diverts their path to the hotel room. 

Crash rides Luc’s face until she’s soaking and her thighs are twitching and her clit is so sensitive every brush of his tongue feels like too much and too good, and Jacks eats Luc out the whole time Luc’s face is buried in her cunt, so Luc is just moaning into her, abs clenching between them. But it’s still not enough. 

“What if--” she pants, as she rolls off Luc’s face, and watches, fingers buried in her pussy, as Jacks grips his and Chants’ dicks together and strokes them and Luc begs for Jacks to jerk him off faster, “--what if I sat on both your dicks at the same time.” She doesn’t normally ask that, but god she wants it. She’s all caught up in the perfectness of the waves today, in being back in the Championship circuit, in _winning_. She feels hungry and unstoppable as the ocean and she wants them both in her so much. 

“Hnngggg,” Luc says, eloquently. 

“Alright,” Jacks says, obviously thinking logistics, “I guess we can -- here, move around and I can--"

“I want to _ride_ you both,” Crash insists, because she wants to sit on their dicks and fuck herself; she doesn’t want to _get fucked_.

It takes maneuvering. It takes Crash’s really excellent sense of balance and all that PT that helped her hip flexors. It takes Luc and Jacks’ willingness to sit in a truly awkward position. But she sits on both their dicks and finally, _finally_ she feels like she has what she wanted and she can just ride them and take what she wants and get what she needs, and fuck, it feels so good. 

Chants and Jacks are making out below (around, beside) her, Jacks’ hand buried in Chants’ hair and his tongue in Chants’ mouth and Crash digs her fingers into their chests and clenches her pussy and comes and comes and comes. 

Afterwards they shower off quickly and Jacks changes the sheets, and Crash changes into sweats and they go back to the beach. The kids are all gathered around listening to Loops play the guitar, the evening turned quiet, fire snapping, and waves in the background behind Loops' music. Disko scoots over to make room for them on the blanket and Chants cuddles up against Jacks and Crash sits beside them, next to Loops’ girlfriend Sage and her kids, and Katya shows her the shells she found with Sasha and Hank, and Crash is about as happy as she thinks she’s ever been. 

A month or so later she calls Luc back in Quebec and says, “I think I might be pregnant.” 

“You think?”

“I am definitely pregnant. In my defense, the way that doctor kept talking about how old I am for my leg recovery, and everyone always talks about how conceiving in your thirties can be _difficult_, like something you have to try for, I didn’t think I could just accidentally be pregnant after one go.”

“Huh,” Luc says. “Well, my boys are pretty good swimmers, I’m probably just really good at making babies.”

“Asshole,” Crash says to cover how fucking fond she feels about how ridiculous he is. And then, just because she loves to stir shit up, “Jacks’ sperm is probably faster than yours.” 

“It definitely isn’t,” Luc protests. 

Crash just laughs and says, “I’m going now, you’ve been warned, sorry to disrupt all our elaborate family planning.” 

_We are not naming this kid Teahupo’o, _ Jacks texts her about 30 seconds later. 

In the beginning of December, Crash stares at the weather map on her phone, then makes an appointment with her OB’s office. She texts Cinnamon and then calls Luc and Jacks and says, “Hey, so, can we not post that baby announcement like we were planning this week?” 

“Uh, sure, what’s up?”

“There’s a low pressure system in the Pacific.” 

“Okay…” Jacks says, “I don’t know what that’s got to do with it, but we don’t have to post any cutesy ‘we’re expecting’ thing at all, Crash, it’s no big deal. The only reason we ever started it in the first place was so people would stop speculating that Luc was cheating and it was making tensions in the locker room. I think after us raising 3 kids together, they’ve kind of figured it out by now. ” 

“No, I just... “ Crash takes a breath. “I think, looking at it, that they’re gonna call Mavericks in the next week or so, earlier than it normally comes."

“Ummm.” 

“I’m gonna surf it.” Crash rushes ahead, “I already talked to my OB. I’m in great shape, I know I’m 16 weeks, will be around 17 weeks during the competition, but my core muscles are really strong, the baby’s still really protected, I’m not really showing at all. The only danger really is you know… if I drown, of course, but I’m not going _die_, and if you start getting into the ethics of that, that’s a whole slippery slope of never surfing, and I’m going to do it. I don’t care. My season has been fucking awesome so far, and I--”

“Crash,” Luc and Jacks interrupt her at the same time but Luc continues with, “We’re not going to tell you what to do with your own career. Surf if it you want. We’ll hold off on the announcement for awhile.” 

Chants and Jacks don’t normally come to her competitions during the school year/hockey season, but they’re not playing hockey any more, and Jacks has author stuff he can do in California, and Luc shrugs about taking the kids out of school for a few days and says, “we’ll work it out.” 

“My boobs don’t fit in my suit,” Crash gripes that morning as she tries to fit into her wetsuit. The wind is blowing, cold and sharp, and Bells and Katya and Hank are all bundled up in coats and toques. Luc tugs at the zipper for her and finally they get it closed. Jacks gives her a hug and Chants squeezes her shoulder and offers her his knuckles for a fistbump. “Ready to go put on a clinic for these dudes on how to surf?” 

“Fucking always,” Crash says and hugs her kids, kisses their foreheads and then jogs off to surf her favorite wave on the planet. 

“Come on, mes gars,” she hears Luc saying behind her, “let’s go put our roses in the water for your mom so she has a good match, okay?” 

A couple months later, Crash gets photoed in Quebec, really obviously pregnant, and some genius on the internet does some math, and then the proverbial people-on-the-internet-who-need-to-mind-their-own-business shit hits the media-fan. The words “unfit” and “endangerment” get thrown around a lot on Twitter, etc. Crash gets called “reckless” so many times. 

“I mean,” she demands, glaring at Cinnamon, “do they think people nicknamed _Crash_ get called that because they’re just really _careful_? Like a decade of people trying to hop on my dick calling me fearless and indomitable and now they’re all shocked that shit is sometimes _dangerous_? I fucking can’t with this, Cinn, my job has always been dangerous.” 

Cinnamon is a saint. She just shrugs and says, “Well, the good news is that the WSL isn't going to revoke your win or bar you from competing or anything. You were cleared by your OB. And people can throw around words all they want on the internet, but legally no one is taking your kids. Like I said, you were cleared by a team of professionals, you felt confident in your health and your body and your skill. So there's really nothing except dealing with negative public opinion for a while. We’ll take over your social media accounts, so you don’t have to see any of it, and it is what it is, until we start strategically building things back up once things quiet some.”

Crash sighs, and tries not to be hurt by it. She doesn’t care about idiots’ opinions of her, she never has, but she _loves_ her kids. It hurts that people think she doesn’t, even if they’re wrong. And it’s infuriating as hell that people think she should somehow be fundamentally changed in her nature just because of motherhood. 

Chants puts his hand on her back. “Crash, bro, you’re a fucking great mom, fuck ‘em, okay? Just fuck ‘em. Also, it’s so dumb, because Yemanja is the mother of fishes. She would never let anything happen to your baby while you were in the water.” 

Next to him Jacks snorts and shakes his head. 

Crash takes a big breath. “What about Adidas, what did they say? Am I going to lose my sponsorship?” 

“No,” Cinn answers carefully, “you’re not, but honestly, their response is probably going to make you madder than if they had.”

“Okay, let’s hear it.” 

“They want to sponsor him.”

“Sponsor who?” Crash asks, confused.

Cinn gestures towards her belly. Crash looks down. “At what? In utero swimming competitions? Summersaults? Kicking me in the ribs?”

“No…” Cinn answers, “They say… Well. They say, technically, he was already under Adidas contract when you won Mavericks. And… with Sasha already signed to Nike, and Hank and Katya already looking like they have a lot of talent, and you and the baby’s dads all being signed by Adidas....” 

“I’m not…” Crash is so angry she could throw something. “I’m not going to…. He’s not even BORN.”

Cinnamon shrugs. “I told you it would make you mad. They don’t want to _pay money_, they want a nominal sponsorship where they send adorable baby Adidas outfits and then if it turns out he goes pro later, they get to pull it out of their back pocket and say he’s been Adidas-sponsored from the womb and offer him a real contract while claiming, you know, family of champions shit for their marketing.”

“That is fucked up on so many levels I can’t handle it.” Crash breathes through her nose. “Okay, it’s fine, I’m breathing out my rage, and breathing in non-murderous thoughts, so, anyway, luckily I have the best PR woman in the world and she can figure out a way to tell them to go fuck themselves that doesn’t involve me beating them to death with a tiny baby Adidas shoe.” 

“I can definitely do that,” Cinnamon grins. 

“So we’re good?” Crash asks. “Except for the persistent blight of capitalism?”

“We’re good,” Cinna says, “and I’m throwing you a kickass baby shower, so prepare yourself.” 

Cinn does throw her a kickass baby shower. It's baby sea turtle themed. 

Crash gives birth in the same bathtub in Quebec she gave birth to the other three - filled up with salt water, with Luc and Jacks holding her hands. 

“We’re _not_ naming him Teahupo’o.” Jacks reiterates putting her son in her arms. 

“No,” she says, because honestly she’s so _proud_, just brimming up with love and _pride_. “We’re naming him Mavericks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I will be able to get tomorrow's fic posted, but just a heads up that things might start slowing down after that here. Work is getting unreal, and I am sort of strapped for time for the next two+ weeks. I have these all picked out with rough plot outlines, so I know that they're definitely all getting done, but every day might get a little impossible.


	9. Tentacles/Sex toys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8 - Tentacles/ Sex toys

Luc and Jacks get fan mail. It goes through Cinnamon’s minions, first, of course, so they only get the nice stuff. A lot of falls along the lines of “I’m gay and was thinking about quitting hockey but now I’m not going to,” and “I’m gay and quit playing hockey but I just found a local (queer) beer league and strapped on skates for the first time in years, because of you.” Which is awesome. There’s also a fair amount of “my son is gay and seeing you win the Stanley Cup made me feel better about that,” which Luc always finds irritating, but whatever. 

Oliver Jackson, Acclaimed SciFi Author, also gets fan mail. Sometimes, Luc, Trophy Husband of Acclaimed SciFi Author Oliver Jackson gets fan mail too. 

Jacks’ publicist forwards the package, opened already, with just a sticky note with a winky face, and the rest of the fan letters. There’s a note from the sender inside that reads, “for the Captain.” 

There’s a giant … thing in the box. It’s still in its packaging, and looks like somewhere in the depths of the sea, a cephalopod is missing an arm. It is also the sort of greenish clear color that means it probably glows in the dark. 

“What the fuck,” Luc demands, “is that thing.” 

“It’s a sex toy,” Jacks says, trying not to laugh. 

“Wow.”

“Mhmmmm….”

“Wow.” Luc repeats, “Like, you write one book about a bisexual spaceship captain who didn’t mind fucking aliens, and all of a sudden people think they know something about your sex life.” 

Jacks really does laugh, just a full belly laugh that has his shoulders shaking. “Oh my god,” he says, “wow.”

“So,” Luc says, “is this recyclable? Can it go to goodwill if it’s still in its package?”

“Oh, we’re not getting rid of it.” 

“What are we doing with it then?” Luc asks, very reasonably. “We can’t leave it sitting around as a sculpture or something.” 

“Well,” Jacks smiles at him, “Obviously I’m going to fuck you with it. After that, I guess we’ll see.” 

Luc’s life is much busier than that of the average adventurous space-ship captain. The kind of sex that involves a conversation like “maybe we should put down a towel,” is a luxury reserved for people in their 20s, or vacations that involve just the two of them and a hotel room. The box gets shoved in a drawer in Jacks’ office, and forgotten about.

“You should come with me to Des Moines,” Jacks says one morning. It's 5 a.m. and he’s making coffee. Luc is making oatmeal for everyone, but no one else is awake yet, except Mavs, who’s playing with the dog on the floor.

“Says no one ever,” Luc answers, because honestly, Luc is aware that Des Moines exists in that he once had a layover there, but honestly, what is even the point of it. 

“No, really, it will be fun.” 

“Do people have fun there?”

“Frequently. Sergei already said he and Alex will watch the kids for a weekend. We’ll owe them a weekend, but that’s fine. And Crash will be here that Monday, so she can pick them up from school, which they’ll love, and then we’ll be home the next day. And we will totally have fun”

“In _Des Moines_,” Luc says, making sure to pronounce it with as many flat American vowels as he can shove into two syllables, just to make his point. 

“You can come to my book signing, and my talk. I’ll wear a cardigan and you can chirp me for looking like a nerd. There’s a great restaurant I went to last time that you’ll love. _We’ll have an entire hotel room to ourselves and no parental responsibilities within a thousand miles_.” 

Oh. 

“Des Moines sounds awesome,” Luc agrees, quickly, before Jacks changes his mind and realizes that inviting Luc to a SciFi event is just a guarantee that Luc will _absolutely_ spend all his free time trying to convince as many people as possible that he really believes Frodo Baggins was a member of the crew on Deep Space 9. 

Luc takes his responsibilities as arm-candy husband to a famous author very seriously. “Do these suit trousers, without a jacket or tie, convey ‘very expensive and a little slutty’?” he asks while they’re packing. 

Jacks hums. “What shirt?”

Luc holds up a white dress shirt he bought in Italy a couple of years ago. 

“Oh, yeah, totally. If that’s the look you’re going for, wear those black slipper things.”

“Ha!” Luc says, and goes to dig them out of the back of his closet. 

Jacks’ book signing takes place in neat little independent bookstore, complete with shop cat and cafe next door with a walk through. Luc orders a tea. 

The barista looks like she is about 15. She has braces, and about five pins on her apron with jokes and lines from Jacks’ book. 

“Excited about the signing?” 

“Oh. My. God.” She starts and babbles about the Greatness of Oliver Jackson through the entire process of making his drink. It’s pretty great. Luc shoves a $20 bill in the tip jar and takes his chai into the book shop to find a shelf to lean against and look properly adoring at Jacks while he signs things. 

Some guy comes up to make small talk with Luc after a little while, and winds up just… telling Luc the entire plot of Jacks’ book. Luc nods along and makes appropriate noises when he’s supposed to. 

“Just, the genius of him, you know?” the guy asks Luc, finally. 

“Oh, for sure,” Luc nods, “I mean, you’d think it was more just in the long passing plays, but he’s still fucking brilliant around the crease too.” 

“Oh, er... Yes. Exactly,” the guy nods. 

Afterwards, in the hotel room, Jacks shuts the door and Luc lies down on the bed, kicking off his shoes. 

"Absolutely no one is going to come through the door demanding a glass of water." Jacks sighs and lies down next to him, stretching out on the duvet. 

"Or walk in on either of us using the toilet." 

"Or cry because they lost a bet and had to eat a bug."

"Or be scared that there's a monster in the closet and try to sleep in our bed."

"Sergei's probably teaching them 15 new ways to insult Russian bureaucrats in their native tongue." 

"Good for them. Everyone needs a hobby." 

"We could do anything," Jacks says. "We could go to a club tonight. We could go eat somewhere that doesn't have a kids menu." 

"For sure," Luc agrees and then promptly falls asleep. 

Luc wakes up around 2 a.m., starving, and uncomfortable as hell in the pair of jeans he'd only worn to the cafe to remind Jacks' adoring masses that Jacks' husband has really great legs. 

He strips down to boxers, shakes Jacks awake, and they order room service. 

"Wow, a cheeseburger at 2 a.m." Jacks yawns, "you really are on vacation."

“We should trade blowjobs,” Luc answers. 

Luc sleeps in to 9 the next morning after they finally go back to sleep. It feels shocking and decadent and like it might be illegal. He drags himself and Jacks to the hotel exercise room for an hour and then they spend another hour Skyping with their kids, and checking in with Crash, and then they go to brunch. They wander around downtown Des Moines, which is not bad at all, despite Luc's chirps, and then eventually go back to the hotel room. Jacks looks over his notes for his talk and Luc tries not to distract him. He flips through channels for a little while, and then eventually gives up and decides to go swim laps for a while. What is he even supposed to be doing with himself if not keeping four to eight little gremlins from killing each other or telling 19 year olds to keep their head up and pay attention and talk to their liney. 

Luc has just enough time after his swim to get a shower, and changed. Jacks is, as promised, wearing a cardigan. Like he’s going for an approachable nerdy professor look, except the cardigan is straining around his shoulders and biceps. Luc gives his arm an appreciative squeeze while giving him a kiss.

Jacks’ talk is good. Students ask questions at the end, and some of Jacks’ answers are funny and some of them are poignant and some of them are about the technical side of writing or world building and Luc texts Sasha through most of those. And then he and Jacks are whisked away to some cocktail meet and greet with other authors. 

It is the most fun Luc has had in weeks. He has three extremely fancy corn-whiskey based cocktails and manages to slip his opinions about Acting Ensign Baggins into at least 5 conversations with strangers. 

“Honestly,” Luc says to one guy, “it’s the best part of the whole Deep Space 9 series, you know?”

“Hmmm… I don’t remember that particular plot arc.” 

Luc shrugs, “You should go back and watch them, seriously, great stuff. Oh! Jacks! Hey,” Luc kisses his husband as he joins them. Jacks hand settles low on Luc’s back, basically on his ass and Luc takes another sip of his drink. Tonight is going to be _awesome_. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Jacks asks him, 20 seconds later, steering him towards a back corridor of the bar. 

“So much,” Luc grins, “Who knew Des Moines was so much fun.”

“That guy’s eye was twitching every time you implied the Ferengi were elves.” Jacks hand drifts lower and _squeezes_, “also, congratulations, you definitely look both expensive and a little slutty.” 

Luc sighs contentedly. He is so going to get fucked tonight. “Ws all around.” 

Back in the hotel room, Jacks fishes a familiar box out of his luggage. 

"Are you serious?" Luc asks

Jacks grins. "I'm going to put down a towel."

Luc eyes the thing. "The whole thing?" That seems… challenging. He pokes at it. It's softer than most dildos he's familiar with. 

"As much as you can."

Well, that's practically a dare.

"I'm going to go get cleaned up," Luc says. 

When he comes back out, Jacks is still in his cardigan, which honestly is really working for Luc. The thing is out of the box. 

"Squid are terrifying," he feels the need to point out. 

Jacks almost laughs and then asks, "What. Like for real?" suddenly looking serious. 

"The big ones." Luc clarifies, "that live on the bottom of the ocean and fight whales. I watched a thing on National Geographic."

"Like, enough that it’s going to freak you out? I don't think I've ever heard you say something's scary before. We don't have to."

"No," Luc says, "I know it's not _real_. I just…" Luc sniffs, "Alien make believe tentacules are fine, or whatever. No squid though." 

"Sure. No squid. Wait, alien whats?"

Luc gestures at the thing. "Tentacules." 

"Tentacles."

Luc stares at him. "Tentacules," he corrects him.

All of a sudden Jacks laughs. "It's tentacles in English."

Luc doesn't talk about tentacules in either language, generally, if he can help it, but he didn't know the English word was any different. "Tentacules," he repeats. "No octopuses either."

Despite Luc's deep suspicions about cephalopod malevolence, he's whole heartedly for anything that starts with Jacks between his legs, fingers slick with lube. The thing is tapered, so Jacks does two fingers, wet and sloppy, into his hole, then pushes the soft rubbery tip in. The side with les ventouses makes him shudder to think about, but shiver to feel as they drag over his rim, like it's ribbed, but more. 

It may start narrow, but it widens quickly. "Fuck," he breathes, suddenly full, the curve of the toy and the fucking ventouses rubbing against his prostate.

"Did you think about this?" Luc asks, toes curling as Jacks fulls the toy out and pushes it back again a little deeper. 

"Think about what?" Jacks isn’t looking at Luc's face, just watching his hole intently. 

"About your space captain that's definitely not me getting fucked by some weird tentacule alien when their ship was in that Cluster."

It takes Jacks a second to answer, but he doesn't stop moving the toy, shifting it, and easing it just a little farther in each time.

"You were thousands of miles away on a fucking death trap of a mountain, I thought about you constantly, but mostly about how mad I was at you " 

Luc whimpers, and it's totally just because Jacks twists the toy, the curve of it pressing into his prostate. 

Jacks smooths a hand down his leg. "I thought about you all the time, Luc, you remember all those nights you Skyped from base camp, that night you called from your bivouac? You talked about the open air, about being that high up, where everything was open and empty and cold but it was so dark, I remember your face in the dark, and I thought about you lost in space. All those stars behind you that we can't see because of light pollution, like you said you could get lost in the sky."

Luc groans and thrusts his hips up, trying to get more, more of Jacks’ voice and more of the toy, more of the friction of les ventouses dragging against his rim and pushing against his prostate. 

"And yes, I thought, sometimes, about how probably no matter where you were in the universe you probably still loved to get fucked any way you could get it." 

Luc laughs and half leans up, looking for Jacks' mouth to kiss, and Jacks obliges, meets him and kisses, soft at first then dirty, pressing Luc back into the bed, and leaning over him. "You want the rest of it?" Jacks asks and Luc nods and tries to grind his hips into the thing. 

"I think you'd like it," Jacks says, body heavy on top of Luc's, warm and solid, mouth whispering and insistent in Luc's ear, "I think you'd like being held down by all those tentacles, like living rope, writhing and wrapping around you." 

"No," Luc gasps even as he tries to fuck himself down harder on the toy, his dick leaking, pressed in between them.

"Yes, you would," Jacks murmurs, "not everything's an evil whale-hurting squid. The universe is filled with all sorts of things."

"And you'd be there.?" Luc gasps -- begs, really. Because he's so close, the fucking curve of it, the texture, alien and new, rubbing against him and he’s so close. 

"Yes," Jacks kisses him and pushes the toy in deep, "of course I'd be there, you think I'd let my captain get fucked by an alien without being there to watch out for him?" 

Luc comes, shuddering, between them. "Fuck me, Oli, get that fucking thing out of me and put your dick in me."

The toy comes out, little ventouses bumping against his oversensitive rim, making him clench, and then Jacks is inside him, dick warm and blunt and familiar, fucking him hard enough to make the hotel bed knock against the wall. 

He doesn't last long, but honestly Luc is so oversensitive he couldn't take much more. He comes and Luc can feel his dick, pulsing inside him.

"Good enough playmaking?" Jacks asks, as he eases down to lie on top of him, still softening inside Luc. 

"Best plays, Jacks, always best plays."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Les ventouses - suction cups


	10. Tattoos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 9 - Tattoos

Luc’s tattoo artist, who’d introduced himself as Dries, has already given him the aftercare talk and then snapped a few pics for his IG account. Luc’s left his shirt off, because he can’t stop looking at it, the black and gray Cup on his ribs (the otherside, not the broken ones), the date, lined permanently into his flesh. The fleur de lis behind it. It’d hurt, mostly because of all the other parts of him that hurt, but also hadn’t hurt at all, if that makes any sense, the way all the other parts of him barely hurt too, the way he could barely feel it half the time, still riding high on the win. 

“You should get a little bee in the bi flag colors,” Rogue jokes as she inspects it. 

“Anytime you want that done,” the tattoo artist assures him, “you just give me a call, man. I will tattoo a bi flag on you literally any time, any day, for free.” He tugs at the collar of his shirt so Luc can see the sprawling script of his chest piece - rainbow letters that read, if Luc can squint through the complicated caligraphy “Queer As In Fuck You.” 

“Nice,” Luc says, looking at it, and gives him a fistbump. “Let me friend you on Insta, I’ll for sure be back, I have some other things I want too. And this looks great, seriously”

The guy blushes, just a little, and says, “I’m glad. You made my month. I might actually start giving a shit about hockey again.” 

“Tell me if you want to come to a game,” Luc offers, “I can get you seats.” 

“I need to wrap you up now,” Dries says, “This needs to be covered.” He’s got saran wrap and a gauze pad that he lays gently over Luc’s tattoo. “I’ll be careful of your other ribs,” he assures Luc as he starts wrapping the saran wrap around Luc’s torso, “just tell me if it hurts.” 

“You’re fine,” Luc assures him and lets the guy finish up and then help him into his shirt, afterwards. 

“So,” Luc says, looking over to where Jacks is lying on his side, chatting with his own tattoo artist as she finishes the last of the shading. Just seeing it there, the Cup, on Jacks’ chest, makes something lurch in Luc’s gut. “With the aftercare stuff.” 

“Yeah?”

“How soon would it be safe to get bodily fluids on it?”

“Bodily fluids?”

“Jizz,” Luc clarifies. 

Dries looks like he’s trying not to laugh and is instead going for firm. “Healed.” he says, “Like, fully, totally, completely healed.” 

“Yeah but…” Luc starts, because. Jacks. Jacks with their Stanley Cup win tattooed on his chest. How is Luc not supposed to jerk off directly onto that as soon as they are someplace the slightest bit private?

“It’s an open wound,” Dries says more firmly. “Do not get that thing infected by rubbing your come all over it and mess up all Andrea’s great work, okay? You shouldn’t even touch new tattoos more than you have to wash and moisturize them and then only with freshly washed hands.

“Okay,” Luc promises. 

“Ya nasty, Chants,” Bergie shouts from a couple of chairs over. 

Luc grins back at him and gives him a fond middle finger. 

Andrea wraps up Jacks’ tattoo and there’s a round of selfies with all the staff and all the ‘diques that are there and they sign a rainbow fleur de lis flag one of the artists had, and a jersey for the wall, and then finally they’re heading home. 

Back at the house, Luc pushes Jacks towards the bedroom, much the general amusement of everyone else hanging out in the TV room. 

“Hi.” Jacks says, falling back onto the mattress and pulling off his shirt as Luc pushes his shorts down and steps out of them. 

“Hi,” Luc says back, already a little breathless at the sight of Jacks on his back, hair all tousled, grinning and rubbing his hand over a growing tent in his own shorts. 

“I think Andrea will manifest herself out of thin air and slap you if you unwrap this thing right now,” Jacks says, “and while she was cool, I don’t really want her in our bedroom.” 

Luc wraps his hand around his already hard dick. Honestly, he’s been half hard since about halfway through getting his own tattoo. Something about the low thrum of the needle, the knowledge of what it was that was going on him, and the fact that he’s been about two seconds from turned on ever since he first touched the Cup however many days ago. He gives himself a few quick strokes. “I’m not going to unwrap it,” he promises, instead of joking back. 

Instead he straddles Jacks on the bed, sits with his ass on top of Jacks’ still-clothed dick, grinds down on that hot, hard length, and strokes himself, hand rubbing over Jacks’ abs, his chest, the slick saran wrap and the gauze underneath. “You’re mine,” he breathes.

“Yeah,” Jacks gasps back and bucks his hips to grind against Luc’s ass. 

“You’re _mine_,” Luc repeats, hand settling over the wrappings of Jacks’ tattoo. “You’re mine and the _the whole world_ knows it now. It’s international news. It’s in fucking newspapers around the world that you’re mine, and you’ve been mine since the beginning and you’re going to be mine forever, and now it’s written in our skin that you’re mine, and I’m yours, and we won the Stanley Cup together.” 

“Yes, Luc, fuck,” Jacks gasps and Luc grinds against Jacks’ dick and strips his cock faster. He can feel Jacks dick twitch and strain, rubbing at his taint and against his ass, and he wants it, but also he wants it just like this. 

“Say it,” Luc says, because he’s so close. “Say it, Oli, tell me.” 

“I’m yours,” Jacks moans, hands settling on Luc’s hips and pushing him down harder against his cock, “I’m yours and you’re mine, and we won a Stanley Cup together.” 

Luc groans and Jacks bucks his hips up again and says, “I’m your center, Chants,” and Luc comes all over Jacks’ belly, and he can feel Jacks come too, dick pulsing in his shorts underneath Luc. 

“Three to four weeks,” Luc says a few minutes later, when he’s wiped Jacks off, and they’re lying on the bed together, suddenly exhausted. “Until it’s all healed.”


	11. Sex Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 11 (technically day 10, but I'm skipping day 10 to come back to later) -- Sex work

After 15 minutes, Jacks gives up waiting, starts the Range Rover and circles around the parking lot to where Luc is still talking to Socks and Charmander. It wasn’t Luc’s fault, he knew. It was his _job_. Captaining. Helping the team work shit out. Jacks would be a lot more sympathetic if it wasn’t late, if he wasn’t hungry and tired, and if he wasn’t lowkey irritated because all he _wants_ to do was go home, eat his weight in steak and potatoes, soak in some Epsom salts, and then sleep for 12 hours straight. 

Of course he won’t be able to do that even if Luc was already in the truck right now instead of working through whatever the fuck that 2nd period was. Because they’ve got an 8 month old at home that _will not_ sleep through the night, and Sveta’s still in fucking Hockey Wives and tonight they’re filming, so Jacks is going home to a camera crew, a baby, his husband’s ex-girlfriend, and god knows who else. 

Jacks doesn’t mind. He really doesn’t mind. He was, in fact, 100% all for Sveta still living there for Sasha’s first year. But fuck sometimes he dreams about a house that’s quiet, and empty and calm for just like… an hour. 

Or maybe he’s just hangry. 

Jacks pulls up to where Luc’s leaning against Charmander’s truck and rolls down his window. Whatever he was about to say dies as Luc pushes himself off Charmander’s door, one long slow roll that doesn’t have any right to be as graceful as it is, and leans over Jacks' window. “Hey handsome,” Luc leers at him, “You lookin’ for a good time?”

Jacks smiles, despite himself. “Come on, Chants.” 

Luc takes an obnoxious suck of his smoothie. It hollows out his cheeks, makes Jacks’ dick twitch in his sweatpants. Fuck it’s been way too long since they had time to themselves. “100 bucks,” Luc says when he’s done teasing Jacks with his ability to suck mango chunks through a too-narrow straw. 

“Sure,” Jacks rolls his eyes, “Get in the fucking car.” 

Luc laughs, slaps Socks and Charmander on their shoulders,and climbs into the passenger seat. He busses Jacks on the cheek. His mouth is cold. He smells like sweat and fruit. 

“Later, Jacks,” Charmander waves at him. 

“Bye, Jacks!” Socks grins. 

Jacks waves at them and pulls through the gate onto the road. “Everything alright?” he asks Luc. 

“All sorted,” Luc assures him. “Just a misunderstanding. They’re cool.” 

Jacks exhales. That’s good. One less thing to stress about. “Good.” 

“Hey,” Luc says, “turn left.” 

“I was ready to be home about 30 minutes ago, Chants.” 

“I know, it won’t take long.” 

Jacks turns left, and follows Luc’s increasingly mysterious directions until one last turn has him pulling into the back lot behind a sketchy looking pizza place they’ve never eaten at. 

“Uh.” Jacks says as he looks at the dumpster they’re parked next to. “If we’re picking up takeout, there’s about 10 other pizza places just that we passed alone that I’d rather get food from.” 

Luc unclicks his seat belt and turns in his seat. 

“What the fuck?” Jacks asks as Luc leans over the center console, fingers ghosting over the front of Jacks’ sweats. 

Jacks grabs Luc’s wrist. “Luc, we’re...in public, what the fuck are you…” 

Luc looks up at him through eyelashes. It’s unfair. “For it to be public, there’d have to people around. It’s just us. Besides, your windows are tinted.” 

Jacks releases a shaky breath. This is a _terrible_ idea. This is how people get arrested and then have to have embarrassing conversations with their PR people and the front office. But it’s really hard to think about Daniel’s disappointed face when Luc’s breath is warm and wet against his dick, mouthing through the cotton of his sweats. 

“Fuck.” Jacks sighs and pushes his waistband down. His dick, hard already, just at the ghost of Luc’s breath and the privacy of a dingy parking lot, springs out, nudging up against Luc’s face. 

Jacks… sort of expects Luc to mouth around at it. Luc really is phenomenal at oral, but in general Luc’s phenomenal at oral because he loves giving it, has a massive oral fixation, and is happy to just… be down there for a while. There’s normally a good 5 minutes of leadup where he’s not doing anything besides satiating his own desire to keep his mouth occupied, not generating enough rhythm to actually get anyone off. 

This is not Luc’s normal blow job. 

Luc takes him down in swift move. His mouth is still cool, but warming up quickly, wet and slick, Luc’s right hand wrapped around the base of Jacks’ dick. He sucks, fast and hard, cheeks hollowing, tongue wrapping around Jacks’ shaft, immediately setting up a system of relentless rhythm and devastating suction, hand following his mouth on the draw-up, tight and wet and twisting. It’s a porn blowjob. A bathroom stall blowjob. An imminently professional blowjob of skill and timing, designed to get someone off like a rocket in minutes. 

It’s too much, Jacks feels like he’s on the edge almost instantly, but fuck if he’s going to waste a blowjob this good by blowing so soon. He closes his eyes to save himself the sight of Luc’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, even as his balls tighten up.

“Slow down,” he grinds out, but that doesn’t help either because Luc _does_ and then it’s just wet, slow suction and more time for Luc’s tongue to lap at the base of his dick or flick at his head and … jesus fucking christ. 

The slow slide is too much and not enough and he just wants… He sinks his hands into Luc’s hair and thrust his hips up, pushing into that wet heat. Then Luc swallows and opens his throat and Jacks feels the tip of his dick push into that tight channel. Luc coughs, just a little, more a spasm of his shoulders than a noise, but his hand is firm and still on Jacks’ thigh, and he’s not tapping out and Jacks pushes up with his hips and pushes down on Luc’s head and Luc’s throat opens up and takes him. He gets maybe 10 thrusts like that before he comes, deep down Luc’s throat, gasping, and sweating, thighs trembling as Luc swallows around him. He lets his hands go, and Luc pulls off, breathing hard, eyes watering, lips swollen and red. 

Luc coughs again and wipes his mouth the bank of his hand. 

Jacks takes a steadying breath and jesus fuck, they’re still in a parking lot, and Luc’s got a tent in his own track pants. Jacks reaches a hand towards him, “here let me get you.” 

But Luc just grins again, shifts in his seat, “Uh-huh, 100 bucks.” He holds his hand out. 

Jacks blinks.

Luc wiggles his fingers. 

“Are you serious?”

“Honest wage for honest work, Jacks,” Luc singsongs. 

Jacks laughs. “Oh, so I’m work now?” he teases. 

That makes Luc laugh too, and he pulls the hem of his shirt up to wipe his face off again. The movement shows skin, winter pale, and 6 perfect abdominal muscles. “Well, I love playing hockey too,” Luc says as the hem drops away from his face. His lips are still red and swollen and his voice hoarse in a way that makes Jacks want to fuck his face all over again, “But it’s not like I’m going to start telling them no thanks to my 18 million a year. Don’t ruin the verisimilitude, mon chum, give me my money. I don’t give back alley blowjobs to guys in fancy cars for free.” 

Jacks pulls his wallet out and hands Luc a hundred dollar bill. 

Luc stares at it. Then stares at Jacks. “Where’s my tip?” 

“I’ll give you a fucking tip, you little shit,” Jacks mutters. 

“Oliver Jackson -- Doesn’t tip service workers. I can see the CDPC headline now,” Luc crows and Jacks rolls his eyes and shoves another 50 into Luc’s hand. 

“How are you such an asshole?” 

Luc folds the two bills, shoves them into his pocket and winks at Jacks. “Combination of natural talent and getting that grind in, you know? Takes practice and determination.”

Then he’s kissing him. Luc’s mouth tastes like jizz and mangos and he’s smiling against Jacks’ mouth. “Love you,” Jacks murmurs as Luc pulls away. 

“I love you too, mon chum. Feeling better?” 

“Yeah,” Jacks says, and remarkably, yes, he’s in a much better mood. 

“Ready to tolerate sharing dinner with a camera crew?” Luc asks, quiet and softer than it was even a few seconds, open and honest. 

“Just about.” And it’s the truth. He’s feeling much more equitable about the whole thing.

“Alright,” Luc says, “And you know we can talk about it if it’s too much.” 

“I’m just hungry, I think,” Jacks says, “and… “

“And horny?” 

“Yeah. We haven’t had a lot of alone time.” 

“We’ll work on making sure of that. Plus, roadie coming.” Luc leans back into his seat and pulls his seatbelt back on, smirks at him, “You can pick me up at the hotel bar when we’re in Denver.” 

“Oh great,” Jacks rolls his eyes, fond, and starts the truck.

“1,000 bucks for the night,” Luc grins.


	12. Gangbang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 10/11 (since I flipped them) -- Gangbang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the story of the "team bonding exercise" that takes place in the first chapter of Until the Whistle:
> 
> “I’m not worried,” Luc answers his unspoken question, not even bothering to look back over to where Pendowski, Socks, McComeau, Evangelista, Percy, and Latte are all pulling on their coats and following after the brunette now like a bumbling, eager pile of puppies. “They know the team bonding rules.” 
> 
> Next to him Holly snorts and Rosie rolls his eyes again. 
> 
> “Team bonding rules?” Jacks looks skeptical and not very impressed.
> 
> “This fucker,” Holly jerks a thumb in Luc’s direction, “freaked the fuck out, for unknown reasons, early last spring, and made us all sign some fucking oath, in blood, to make sure we all followed the gentleman’s guide to gangbangs, or whatever the fuck.”

Penelope can’t believe this is happening. She can’t believe she’s _doing this_. But she is. 

Ever since Lee had told her she was _boring_ when they broke up, ever since she’d found out he’d been cheating on her ever since _college_, all could she think is “I wasted being loyal _on you_? I made do with mediocre sex that barely ever got me off, for years _for you_? And you think _I’m_ boring??? She feels like she wasted half her 20s on some milquetoast guy who wears _boat shoes_ unironically and lectured her about her savings account, because she didn’t know any better, and then he had the audacity to say she was boring when she was beginning to suspect she’d only made herself boring _for him_ for years.

Well. Fuck that. Fuck all of that. Penelope is single and she’s going to do what she wants and she’s not ever going to be _bored_ again. She wasted five years when she could have been doing whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, with people who presumably would have known how to find her clit. 

Which is why she’d put on her heels and blown out her hair and gone out tonight with some friends, even though Old Penelope would have stayed in on a Friday night and watched old Interior Design Challenge re-runs. 

And somehow, unexpectedly, that’s how she wound up here. 

Naked, her dress slipping to the floor at her feet, in a hotel room with six men she just met. It’d all seemed very _sensible_ on the walk to the hotel. Jordie had insisted they walk, instead of taking the cab. He’d said the cold would cool them all off and give them a chance to talk about what she did and didn’t want to happen tonight. The cold air had made her nose burn, and she’d stuck her hands in her coat pockets and blushed her way through a series of grownup, sensible questions about test results and condoms and how she felt about anal and part of her brain, a small part, had still been screeching _Six. Six! What are you doing? We don’t do this! We can’t have sex with six men at once, we were in the Accounting Club in college!_ but the rest of her brain had sort of smug about the whole conversation, like _see how reasonable and adult we’re being about this? We’re talking about test results. When was the last time you had sex with *one* man and he was this thoughtful asking about what you did and didn’t like?_

But now, in the hotel room, naked, it hits her like a bag of bricks on her chest. The guys dump their coats on one of the beds and Iain pulls his sweater off. He’s so big, all that muscle, and suddenly the six of them are taking up so much room and her heart is racing.

“Hey,” Jordie says behind her, hands suddenly warm on her bare shoulders. “Hey, you’re okay, Penelope, you’re okay.”

“I don’t….”

He turns her around to face him and he looks so serious, “Do you want to go?” He ‘s still got her coat over one arm, and he says, “You can leave _any time_ okay, but if you want to go right now, that’s fine, I get it, it’s a lot, it’s not for everyone. I’ll call you an Uber.”

Penelope bites the inside of her cheek. She’s not going to _chicken out_...

Jordie looks at her face, for a while, and he’s so handsome, those warm brown eyes, the tan skin and the soft curls, but the best part is how _kind_ he feels. “I’m going to put your coat by the door,” he says stepping away, “it’ll be right here. If you want to stay, stay, but it’s not a now-or-never thing. Anytime you want to leave, your coat’s here by the door.” 

“Okay.” Something unclenches in her chest. One of the guys pulls the beanie off his head and his sandly blond hair fluffs as he scratches his fingers through it, nose crinkling. He looks about as intimidating as a baby duck, despite the height, and the biceps. Another, Percey he’d said when she’d shaken his hand at the bar, looks up from where he’s been sitting on the edge of the bed, untying his shoes. 

“Hoooolllllyyyyy,” he whistles, “look at you, gorgeous, come here.” 

Penelope takes three steps forward, so stand between his legs and he smiles up at her, runs a dark hand over her belly. “Sweetheart,” he says, “You are just beautiful.” Percey’ hair is buzzed short in a crisp fade, his eyelashes are so curly, and the cuff of the sweater he’s wearing is soft where it brushes against her skin. Everything about him is warm, and soft, and enticing. 

Penelope feels like her knees are trembling and she gasps, a little, at how good his hand feels, at how good it feels to have his eyes on her, that admiration and attention. 

“Is that okay?” he asks, “do you mind us calling you things like that?” 

“Sweetheart’s fine,” she says, finally, lost in the way his hand keeps stroking over her belly, along her side, down her thighs, “just… nothing mean.” 

“That’s not our thing,” and that’s Jordie’s light Boston accent, next to her, except now he’s naked too, and fuck, he looked built in the bar but he’s so…. He kisses her, hand sliding against her neck, tongue just barely sliding in her mouth before he’s pulling away, and then kissing her once again on the side of her mouth. “And even if it was, which it’s not, we still wouldn’t, because I think it’d make Socks cry.” 

“Hey!” the sandy blond one with the hat hair says. He’s got his shirt half off, pulled over his head. 

Iain, the one who’d first stripped out of his sweater when they’d come in, the one she’d thought was Irish, at the bar, until he’d told her he was from some island in Canada, takes advantage of Socks’ arms being trapped in his shirt to flick his belly. Socks yelps and flails, wrenching himself free of his shirt and then flings himself on Iain and in seconds they’re on the hotel carpet, wrestling like puppies. Any vestige of unease she was feeling vanishes in a puff of giggles. 

“Don’t mind them,” Matt says, taking a seat next to Percey, “we won a game tonight, they’ve got a lot of energy to burn off.” 

“Oh,” Penelope jokes, “I thought that’s why I was here?” And something about that clicks into place. Of course they’re athletes, that fits with everything about them so far tonight, as well as the hotel room, the suit cases, Jordie’s amazing quads. 

“You’re here to have fun,” the last guy, Latte Jordie had called him, who’d been hanging back, and is still fully dressed says. He’s got ice blond hair and the palest eyes, a missing eye-tooth and some kind of Scandinavian accent. He tosses an unopened box of condoms onto the bed. He’d seemed reserved, at the bar, on the walk back, but there’s nothing reserved about the way he kisses her, filthy sweet and demanding. 

Jordie’s hands settle again on her shoulders, half way through the kiss, a firm pressure, urging her down and she follows it until she’s kneeling there between Percey’s legs. Matt kicks out in his sock feet, next to her, at the boys still wrestling on the floor, “move the fuck out of the way, give the lady room, fucks sake,” he grumbles. 

Percey undoes his belt and his dick springs free as he pushes his jeans off his hips. She feels a momentary surge of nervousness again, just because it’s been so long since she sucked anyone’s dick beside Lee’s and what if she’s… not good at it anymore, or something, but then Jordie’s behind her, brushing her hair off her shoulders and telling her how gorgeous she is and she licks at the head of Percey’s dick and he groans and runs his hand through her hair and she’s not nervous anymore. 

~~~~~

Penelope groans, her body clenches, she’s coming, again, she thinks, but it feels like her brain stopped working three rounds and six orgasms ago. Someone’s fucking her again, grinding their dick into her pussy in long slow strokes, but she doesn’t know who. It’s Jordie whose tongue is down there, she knows, lying underneath her and licking at her clit, because she’s got her fingers in his hair. 

“Fuck, keep doing that you’re making her clench around me, fuck,” the guy behind her gasps, and oh, so that’s Iain. 

She turns her head and sees Socks. The head of his dick is flushed red and wet and her mouth opens automatically at the sigh of it. He slides his cock into her mouth and she swallows around it reflexively. Jordie _sucks_ on her clit, then, and it’s too much, she’s come too many times but suddenly she’s coming again and she moans, around the dick in her mouth and Iain curses, fingers tight on her hips and comes. When he steps away, tying off the condom, she collapses, without his hands holding her hips up. 

Jordie catches her and rolls her over. “Sorry, Socks,” he says as he shifts her.

“It’s okay,” she hears Socks say, and it sounds far away, even though he’s still right there, his blond hairy thighs next to her shoulders, “she’s tired, I can just…” She can hear the wet sound of him stroking his cock and she opens his eyes. He’s jerking off, just inches from her and she opens her mouth again, hoping he’ll let her….

“Sweetheart, you still want more?” Jordie asks, when he sees her open mouth, “Socks, give her what she wants,” and Socks is kneeling over her, tip of his cock bumping against her lips. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, and comes on her tongue. 

Behind her she hears Matt groan. “Fuck my _balls_ hurt, I’ve come so much. But everytime I look at her all fucked out and still wanting more, my dick feels like it can go one more round.”

“I think she’s just about done,” Jordie says, hand on her cheek straying down to her mouth. She sucks at his thumb, when it pushes at her lips and closes her eyes. It’s too bright, and she’s so tired. 

She feels a hand on her pussy and groans. She’s _sore_, but it feels good, too. 

“Jesus,” she hears Matt whistle, “look at the gape.” 

Suddenly she’s _moving_, being lifted up. “Alright,” Jordie says, “I think we’re done, boys. Latte, go get the shower started.” 

Penelope tries to struggle back into her head but she’s tired, and everything feels like too much but just enough. “Do I need to go?” she asks.

“No, babe, you need to take a shower. You’re covered in come and it’s going to feel awful in a bit if you don’t wash it off now.” 

Penelope doesn’t think she can stand in a shower, but it turns out she doesn’t have to, not on her own. It’s already running, hot and steamy. Jordie carries her into the bathroom, bridal style, and eases her onto her feet, between him and Latte, under the shower, propped up between them. 

The hot water feels amazing, cutting through all the stickiness on her skin and beating warmth into her muscles. She groans at how good it feels, and she feels Latte’s dick twitch against her thigh behind her. “Don’t make that noise,” he teases, “my dick’s too tired to fuck you again.” 

She rests her head against Jordie’s chest, and enjoys the feel Latte’s hands, soapy and slick, running over skin. 

She must have dozed off for a few seconds because when she starts paying attention again, she realizes Jordie and Latte are arguing about conditioner. 

“I’m just saying,” Jordie is saying “Conditioner goes on after.” 

“For your hair, maybe,” Latte snaps, “her hair’s too fine. It’ll weigh it down.”

“Her hair’s not thin, she’s got tons of…”

“The individual follicles are thin.”

“Oh, okay, well, if it’s the _individual follicles_, Vidal Sassoon here is the expert I guess soo…”

“Oh my god.” Penelope mutters, “what the fuck.”

“Hey,” Jordie murmurs, tilting her face up to him. She struggles to open her eyes. His curls are wet and plastered to his head, water droplets clinging to his eyelashes and he’s grinning. “Are you a conditioner before shampoo or after shampoo kind of girl.”

“Before.”

“Ha! I told you!” she hears Latte gloat behind her. 

“Christ, you couldn’t have lied just to let me win?” Jordie jokes. She can feel Latte already working conditioner into her hair. It feels amazing, his hands in her hair. “Close your eyes, babe,” Jordie says, “I’m going to wash your face.”

Well, that wakes her up. Her eyes snap fully open. “No!” she snaps. 

All motion in the shower stops in shocked silence. 

Suddenly she feels very silly. “Um…” she looks around, coming out of whatever come-drunk fog she’d been in, “I mean…” she’s blushing. She can feel herself blushing, “don’t… Please don’t put body wash or bar soap on my face.”

Latte starts laughing. She can feel him shake with it, head resting on her shoulder. Jordie’s smiling too and he holds up a small jar of some kind of facial cleanser. “Babe,” he says, smile tugging at his mouth, “do I look like I wash my face with fucking Dial? I have sensitive skin and I’m way too pretty to fuck around with that nonsense.”

“Vain fucking bastard,” Latte teases behind her and suddenly Penelope’s laughing too, it’s bubbling out of her shocky hiccoughs and giggles, unstoppable. 

“Close your eyes,” Jordie says and she does, even while she’s still laughing. Whatever he puts on her face smells amazing and his fingers are delicate as they smooth it over her skin. “You've got come crusted into your eyelashes” he says, thumb stroking over her closed eyelids, “poor babe, we were rough on you, are you doing okay?” 

“Yes,” she says, because she doesn’t think she’s ever felt more content in her life. 

Jordie gets her a big t-shirt, gray with a big blue fleur-de-lis on it after they’ve dried her off with a towel. “If you need to, you can leave,” Matt says, “if you want, we can call a cab, but it’s 9 degrees outside and snowing, and you might as well just sleep here.” 

One of the beds in the room is stripped down now, blankets and sheets on a pile next to it. The door to the neighboring room is open and Percey steps through back into their room, with a towel wrapped around his waist. He hands her a Gatorade and a Luna bar and suddenly she realizes she’s thirstier than she realized and hungry too. 

Maybe she should go home, but she doesn’t want to. The thought of sitting all alone in a cab after tonight makes something twist in her stomach and make her feel uneasy. “I’d like to stay,” she says, and takes a bite from the Luna bar. 

There’s an old Jackie Chan movie on the TV, volume turned down low and captions on. Jordie sits down on the bed, back against the headboard and flips through channels. 

‘I’m going to bed,” Percey says, “you guys have a good night, if I don’t see you in the morning, it was a pleasure, Pen.” He kisses her, soft and closed mouthed, and goes back into his room. 

“Uhhh,” Socks rolls over from where he was lying, spread out on the mattress pad of the stripped, bed, “I should go too.” He’s pulled on boxers, but he gathers the rest of his clothes from the floor and kisses her sweetly on the cheek before he leaves. “Good night, Penelope,” he says, blushing a little and follows Percey, pulling the door mostly shut behind him. 

Matt scoops her up and deposits her in Jordie’s lap and heads to the bathroom muttering about brushing his teeth. She’s vaguely aware that Latte and Iain are getting dressed too, but she’s already getting sleepy again and Jordie smells good so she doesn’t pay much attention. Someone kisses the top of her head. 

When she wakes up she’s disoriented and too hot, trapped under the covers. It takes her a few seconds to realize it’s because she’s in the middle of the bed, Jordie on one side, arm draped around her, Matt on the other side, flat on his back and snoring. It’s too hot between the two of them, and she wiggles around until she’s got one leg out of the covers to cool off. The alarm clock on the table says it’s 4:00 a.m. Jordie snuffles behind her, arm pulling around her more tightly, and she closes her eyes and goes back to sleep. 

When she wakes up again, the beds are empty and so is the room. There’s light coming through the curtains. She gets out of bed and oh, wow, her hips are sore. Her legs are sore. Her pussy’s sore. Her _abs_ are sore, somehow. She finds her dress where someone put on the TV stand, with her panties, and pulls them both on and then groans in mortification. She’s going to have to do the walk of shame. Out of a Marriott. Not some sleezy motel, or a frat house, or someone’s apartment, but a family hotel that does business conferences and continental breakfasts and probably has kids running around the lobby. 

The door opens just as she’s pulling her coat on and sighing in relief when she realizes that with her longer black pea-coat on over the dress she looks less like she’s still in last night’s clubbing clothes. Jordie steps through the door,and he’s got Starbucks. “Oh, you’re awake.” He smiles at her. “I asked you if you have any dietary restrictions, but I think you were still asleep because you told me you didn’t want to eat the tortoise.” 

Penelope groans. “I talk in my sleep. God, I didn’t say anything else, did I? One time in college I was talking about ghosts and really freaked my roommate out.” 

“Nah, nothing else. I got a pumpkin bread, and those egg bite things because I didn’t know your feelings about gluten.”

“I’m strongly pro-gluten.” Penelope says, solemnly, and takes the pumpkin bread out of his hands. “And strongly pro… Is that a PSL.” 

Jordie _blushes_. “Not that I’m… assuming you’re… like…”

“A basic bitch?”

He blushes more. “If you don’t want it, I’ll drink it.” 

Penelope turns the other cup to look at it’s label. It’s a soy milk Matcha thing. “You are just full of hidden facets,” she teases, taking the Pumpkin Spice. She takes the first sip, closing her eyes to savor it, and when she opens them again, Jordie’s watching her. 

“I should go,” she says, to fill the silence. 

“Do you have to be at work, or anywhere?”

“No, I work Monday through Friday, but I need to get home. My roommate will let my dog out but I normally take her on a long walk on Sunday mornings.”

“Yeah, I need to go in a bit too, we need to be at the bus in about 15 minutes.”

“You play… football?” she guesses. 

“Hockey. What do you do?”

“I’m an actuary.” 

Jordie blinks at her for a second and then starts laughing so hard he has to sit down on the bed all the awkward tension disappearing between them. He sets his drink down on the floor, holding his belly and laughs. Finally he wipes his eyes and says, “You assess risks for a living and you went back to a hotel with six guys you didn't know? What the fuck, sweetheart.”

She almost says _what if I wanted a risk_, because it’s true, but instead she thinks about his kind eyes at the bar last night, and says instead, “Well, maybe I guess you felt pretty safe,” which is true too. 

“I’m glad,” Jordie says, softer, and then, “Come here.” 

She steps between his legs and it’s so much like the beginning of last night except it doesn’t feel anything like it at all. “Are you doing okay? Feeling alright?” 

“Yes,” she says, “I mean, last night was… surreal. But amazing.” She huffs, frustrated, thinking about how everything about everything made her feel… happy. Seen. How she’d think something like this would make her feel awful the next morning, but instead she just… she has a coffee, and Jordie smiling at her, and nothing feels bad at all. “I think you may have ruined me for normal hookups though.” 

Jordie bites his lip, and looks for a second like he’s going to say something, and then finally says, instead, “where’s your phone?”

Penelope fishes it out of her coat pocket, unlocks it hands it to him when he puts his palm out for it. 

She watches him type his name and number into her contacts. “I probably can’t always guarantee something like this, but… you should text me,” he says, handing her phone back, “it might be just me, next time, but.. Hopefully I can still …”

Penelope shuts him up with a kiss. “Just you sounds great,” she says, pulling away. “Not that everyone else wasn’t… but… you’re…”

“Yeah,” Jordie says, soft, “yeah.”

“Do you want… are you in Denver a lot?”

Jordie winces. “Once a year, during the season. But.. I train in Vail, during the summer, and flying’s easy. Wherever. It doesn’t matter. We can… Well, you should text me, okay?”

“I will,” Penelope says, and means it.


	13. Orgasm Denial/Sounding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 12 - Orgasm Denial, Sounding

When Jacks had suggested it. Luc had said, “You want to _what_?” and looked scandalized and legitimately a little distressed, hand straying over his crotch in a reflexive shield, but when Jacks had brought up a video, Luc had chewed on the pendant of his necklace and looked speculative and finally, half way through the clip had asked, “what about if I did that to you?” 

“Really?” Jacks had startled, “Oh… yeah… sure,” heart lurching into his throat and dick already stirring just at the thought. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course Luc, who’s always felt like he owned every inch of Jacks, who’s acted, his whole life, like Jacks’ lungs and his skin and his bones and his heart have always been Luc’s, is intrigued that there’s another way he can be inside him.

Which brings them here - to Jacks sitting on the bed, bracing his calves against the mattress and trying to fight back the urge to come, and Luc sitting next to him, a look of rapt attention on his face as he drags the sound slowly in and out of Jacks’ dick. 

“_Luc_,” Jacks hisses, desperate. 

“Shhh,” Luc shushes him, eyes still fixed on his dick, “Oli, I can see it move inside you when I pull it out.” He’s transfixed. 

“_Fuck_ Jacks cries, because it’s too much, he’s going to come, he’s… There’s a sharp sudden tug on his balls that makes his gut clench and the orgasm that was building in them stutters to a halt. 

“Don’t _come_,” Luc says, hand wrapped around his balls, “I’m not done yet. Tabernak de crisse, Oli, look at it in you.” He drizzles some more lube on the head of Jacks’ dick, the sound just barely resting in the tip, and then pushes the metal rod back down, other hand coming up, warm and firm to wrap around his cock. 

Jacks is going to cry. It doesn’t hurt, it feels amazing but in a way that’s too much and not enough at the same time and he feels like if he doesn’t come in the next two seconds he’s going to die. 

“Chants, _please_,” he begs. 

Luc looks up at him. His pupils are huge, a flush high on his cheeks. He looks intent and hungry, a possessive sort of focus that makes Jacks' heart flutter and his toes curl, makes him even closer and more desperate to come. 

“You’re _mine_, Jacks.” 

“I know,” he gasps. 

“Can you come just like this? With me fucking your cock?” But he’s a fucking tease because even as Jacks’ dick twitches and strains to show him just how easily he could come like this, Luc is plunging the sound back in him and tugging on his balls again. “You should wait some more,” Luc says softly, “Can you wait a little bit more for me, mon chum?”

Jacks does cry then, one hot tear spilling down his cheek, and gasps, and nods. “Yes, fuck you, I can wait.”

Luc hums and fucks the sound in and out of him a few more times, “You’re so good for me, Jacks, you’re always so good, I love you so much. Everything about you is perfect, even your cock is perfect, and it’s mine.”

“It’s yours,” Jacks agrees, feverish and desperate, “it’s yours, Chants, every part of me is yours.” 

Luc mutters something that sounds like mine again, and his hand, slippery with lube rubs at Jacks balls, thumb straying down to his taint to push against his prostate from the outside, even as the sound pushes into him. “Okay, Oli, I want to see you come now,” Luc says, and he’s pulling the sound out, and pressing with his thumb, and Jacks couldn’t stop the orgasm from being dragged out of him if he wanted. He feels like it comes from the very base of his balls, like it’s pulling his soul out with it, and he gasps and his cock shoots come, all over Luc’s hand and Jacks’ chest. 

“Fuck,” Luc says, voice somehow focused and succint yet dazed at the same time, “fuck.” And then he’s stripping his cock, fast and rough, leaning over Jacks and coming all over Jacks’ twitching soft cock and empty balls. 

It takes a few minutes for Jacks to feel like he’s capable of higher thought again. When he does he realizes he’s still lying on the bed, come cooling on his torso and in his pubes, and Luc is lying next to him, watching him, fingers stroking gently over his heart.

When Luc sees him open his eyes he smiles, and kisses him, soft and tender. And then heaves himself off the bed, “I’ll get a towel,” he says, and leans over, kisses Jacks again, “mon cadeau.”


	14. Injury/Altered Mental States

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he’d never joined the SOE, if he’d never parachuted into the French countryside, he’d never have met Chantal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Halloween. To celebrate I dressed Superstition in a historical AU costume. I am not a historian, I did zero research, and the only info I know about this I got from watching that show Churchill's Secret Agents on Netflix where the show took a handful of normal modern British people, dressed them in 40s clothes and trained them with the SOE manuals on how to fight Nazis, which seems like a good skill set to have in any time period but is hardly research. Please don't expect rigorous historical accuracy.

If you had asked Oliver Jackson five years ago how he thought he’d die, he'd have guessed at home, alone, in his old age. Most days he figured home would be a cottage somewhere back in Moncton, or maybe a village somewhere in England, as he was, at the time, reading Linguistics at Wadham. When he was feeling particularly optimistic he imagined he might be spending his old age on the Riviera somewhere, a celebrated author. In his more negative moods, he thought it just as likely he’d die in prison, held at her Majesty’s leisure for homosexual tendencies. 

If you’d asked him two years ago -- well -- two years ago he was dying, wasn’t he? As close to dead as it’s possible to be and still somehow cling to the Earth. In a triage tent in North Africa, a bullet from a German mauser in his eye. 

The Royal Army had no more use for him, with only one eye and a broken foot, but the Special Operations Executive had found him, taken him to some grand old house in Scotland. They had plenty of use for a first lieutenant with terrible depth perception but fluent French, a knack for encryption due to his Linguistics studies, and speed with Morse on the radio. A year ago, in Scotland, Oliver had climbed that awful fucking rock face in the weeping rain, shaking with fear, and known he’d probably die in France. Shot in a field if he was lucky. At the hands of the gestapo if he was unlucky enough to get captured. 

But, it was worth it. Not just because it was his duty, not just because Hitler had to be stopped. But because, quite selfishly, if he’d never joined the SOE, if he’d never parachuted into the French countryside, he’d never have met Chantal 

Chantal, the head of the local Resistance unit. Chantal, with his heavy eyelashes, and deadly shot. Chantal with his leadership, his determination, his deft hands. His laughing mouth and grim eyes. Chantal, who was the most beautiful, the bravest man Oliver Jackson had ever met, and who he was, quite passionately, quite unrequitedly in love with. As was, he’s pretty sure, the rest of their cadre, at least a little. And half the surrounding countryside. The times they’d managed to finagle shelter, a list of names, a hide-away, anything, just on the strength of Luc Chantal’s charm was unbelievable. 

Oliver’s been a year in France, serving the SOE and liaising with Chantal’s band of resistance fighters, and it’s amazing, all things considered, that he’s not dead yet, since the life expectancy of a radio operator isn’t much more than six weeks. Longer than he expected, at least. He could die now, exactly the sort of place where he would have imagined he would, hiding in a dairy yard in Normandy, hoping they aren’t discovered this close to their safe house. He can hear the farmer now, talking to the officials questioning him. Can feel Beatriz’s breath against the side of his neck, fast and heavy from their sprint, she’s squeezed in next to him in the tack room in the back of the barn. 

She shifts her hand against his side and then pulls it away, starting at it, brings up for him to look at wordlessly and two of her fingers are red, sticky with blood. He’s bleeding, somewhere in his side. He wasn’t shot, he must have cut something on his side, against a branch or something, when they were tumbling out of the train. He hadn’t even felt it. He shakes his head. She wipes them on his trousers. There's nothing they can do about it right now, he can hear the footsteps, boots coming into the barn. 

Beatriz casts a frantic look at the door, eyes big, and then, to his surprise, yanks her sweater over her head, and tears at her blouse. Buttons fly as she swings her leg over his to straddle him, her wool skirt pool around them covering most of him from his waist down. 

“Kiss me _right now_,” she hisses and he does, sinks his hands into her hair to muss it, and sticks his tongue down his throat. 

The door swings open. Beatriz lets out a maidenly squeak of embarrassment, the kind of sound he’s never heard from their tough as brass balls pyrotechnics expert before, and clutches at her chest. 

“Eerrrrrr,” Oliver says, in what he hopes sounds like the consternation of a young man caught with his pants down, not an English spy. 

They’re lucky, because it’s the gendarmerie not German soldiers. 

They ask to see their papers and Beatriz fishes them out of her bag, skirt never drifting away from his injured side. Oliver shifts himself to pull his own of his wallet. 

They ask what they’re doing, snickering a little. Oliver blushes, hating even saying it, but says, “She’s Spanish. My mother doesn’t approve.” It’s a dirty lie. Not just the part about her being Spanish, but his mother would love Beatriz Teixeira, would love her stories about Portugal and Brazil. Would love that she convinced some British flyboys to teach her to _fly a plane_. Would love her ability to make a bomb out of damn near anything. Convenient that, a war: Oliver will probably be dead long before he ever has to explain to his mother why he’s never going to get married, not even to a woman as amazing as Beatriz. 

These particular gendarmes seem to appreciate a good star-crossed lovers story. Or maybe just Beatriz’s brassiere. Or maybe, far more likely, the first two warm them up, and the cash Oliver shoves into their hands with a fervent, “_Please_ don’t tell anyone you saw me here with her, I’ll be _disinherited_,” seals the deal. 

The gendarmes leave, wallets thicker, one casting another long glance at Beatriz’s bruised lips and small breasts and giving Oliver a wink. 

They wait 30 minutes in the tack room before they leave. Beatriz scrambles off him and starts tearing up her slip to wrap around his side. It’s getting dark, before they’re confident the coast is clear and they’re safe to try to make they’re way back to the safe house. 

“We should leave some money, something, with the farmer, for saying he didn’t know anything about us.” 

“Le Capitaine will take care of it. We’ll let him know.” 

They pick their way through the field in the creeping dusk, down to the edge of the farm and into another, an old out-building that used to be for bottling wine and is their temporary home, the most recent in a series of safe houses. 

It’s Hertl that greets them when they come through the door, the dark haired Czech with the round cherub face and the deadly aim. 

“Where’s the Captain?” Oliver asks immediately, because Chantal _always_ meets his team when they get back from a mission, if he’s here. And he should be here. If he’s not, something went wrong. 

Hertl jerks his head toward the back room, but doesn’t say anything more, and that only makes Oliver more worried. “Did you get the coordinates?” Hertl asks. 

“Yes,” Beatriz says, “we got them, and we got the dynamite stashed. Had to think quick for a bit, and then had to show our papers to the gendarmerie, but our cover stories held. ” 

Hertl nods. “Good. We will get time for detonation tonight. Listen for pass-code. I have to go, now you are back. I will be back by midnight. Farmers left some bread, it’s on the table.” 

He and Beatriz hug as he leaves, Oliver clasps Hertl’s shoulder. 

“Get your jacket off,” Beatriz says, “I’ll get the bandages.” 

Oliver’s stripped down to just his trousers, dabbing at his side with iodine when Chantal finally makes his appearance, leaning against the door frame. 

“Did you get shot again, Jackson?” he asks. 

Oliver shakes his head, “Nicked my side in our roll off the train, on a branch or something, I guess.” 

Chantal makes a particularly French sound, neither positive or negative, eyes glued to him. “I’m glad you didn’t get shot,” he says, finally, and christ, he reeks of brandy. He is, Oliver realizes, suddenly, _drunk_. And still drinking, a brandy bottle hanging loose from his fine, clever fingers. Never, in the whole year they’ve been fighting together, has Oliver seen him lose his head, and yet here, on this night, of all nights, on the eve of something _big_, even if they don’t know what yet, just that the Allies are moving, planning something, and they'll need as much disruption and sabotage as the Resistance can offer. Oliver shakes his head. Something is wrong. Chantal is not ok.

“Are we ready to go, when we get the signal?” Chantal asks, all business despite the brandy. 

“Yes,” Oliver tells him. “Will Martin and Giroux be back tonight?” 

Chantal nods. “They should be back in the next two hours.” Chantal leans over him. “I’m glad you’re not shot, Oliver Jackson,” he says, and it’s normally his mouth, his laughing mouth, that makes up for the grimness in his eyes, but now there’s nothing about his face that isn’t pulled tight and haggard, that isn’t etched in care; there’s nothing but sorrow. “I’m glad you’re here. Promise me you will be careful tomorrow.” His thumb strays over Oliver’s cheek, brushing underneath his eye, the glass one. 

“Of course,” Oliver says, lost at his seriousness. “Are you… ok?”

Chantal snorts and takes a swig from his bottle. “Martin heard it in town, a group arrested outside Nantes.” 

That’s… well, that’s awful, but not unexpected. Unless. Chantal must know someone. 

Chantal doesn’t volunteer anything and Oliver shouldn’t ask. 

“Oli, can you get the radio hooked up?” Beatriz asks. “Broadcast in 10.” 

Oliver gets the radio working and tunes it into Radio London. On his watch the time ticks over to the next hour. The radio plays the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Short short short long. The morse code for the letter V. For victory. Oliver’s heart clenches, just at the sound of it. “And now, a message for our listeners--”

Oli jots the code words down and starts decrypting it. “6:30 a.m.” he says, when he’s done, “We blow it at 6:30 tomorrow morning.” 

Chantal nods, decisive and stern. “We should sleep while we can, then, we'll need to be in place well before dawn so we're not spotted. Oli, take the radio down and pack it up. Crash, make sure your kit’s ready. We’ll wait for Martin and Giroux to get back and then we’ll leave.” He turns on his heel and goes into the backroom where they have their bedrolls on the floor, on mattresses of old hay and wool. 

Beatriz looks at him, mouths. “Go check on him.” 

“Shouldn’t you?” Oliver whispers back, because it’s not a secret that Chantal and Beatriz share a bed, sometimes. Oliver knows they’re perfect for each other in a way, both reckless and charming and a little wild. He can’t even begrudge them it, it’s not their fault Oliver’s in love with him too. 

Beatriz rolls her eyes and mouths, “_No. You._”

Oliver isn’t going to argue. 

Luc Chantal is sitting on bedroll, eyes closed, leaning against the wall, but obviously awake. Oliver sits down next to him. He doesn’t open his eyes but he does offer the brandy to Oliver. 

Oliver takes a sip. 

“My mother,” Chantal says, finally. “I know we’re not supposed to know who we all are, who runs the other cells. But I saw her once, when we were on a mission. So I know that’s where they stationed her.”

“My mum’s a nurse,” Oliver offers. “She’s… god, I don't know where they have her. On the front, somewhere, I think. I got some letters from her, when I was in hospital back in London but since then, of course, I haven’t been getting any of them.” 

Chantal squeezes his hand. “I wanted to stop her, to hug her, to just walk by her in passing and clasp her hand, but I couldn’t risk it. So I didn’t say anything.” He takes another long drink. “Probably the last time I’ll see her.” 

“Maybe not,” Olive argues, “you don’t know for sure that it was her that was captured.”

“Sure,” Chantal says, “of course. I don’t know.” He sighs. He wipes his eyes furiously. "Fuck, I hope she took as many of those fucking bastards out with her as she could before they got her." 

He looks suddenly so young. A boy, missing his mother. Oliver realizes he doesn't know how old Luc Chantal is. Is he 20? 30? The last few years have aged them all too much, it's impossible to tell. 

"I should go check on Beatriz." He doesn't want to, but maybe Chantal wants to be alone with his grief. 

When he goes to stand, Luc grabs his hand. "Don't leave me alone, Oli," he whispers, "don't leave me alone tonight." 

Oliver shudders and Luc doesn't let go of his hand, just pulls him down and kisses him. 

Oliver kisses back until his brain finally kicks back into gear and he pulls away. "You're drunk," he makes himself say. 

Luc's laugh is rusty, "That doesn't make me want you any differently."

"We shouldn't, we could be…"

"You English, you're always so careful, I don't care, Oli, who the fuck cares. Don't you want me? I know you've been wanting me. I've seen you." 

"I’m Canadian, actually." Oliver protests, and then, "You haven't ever…" 

"I thought it would hurt less to lose you if I never… but it doesn't. What is the point of waiting for anything in life?" 

Maybe he should be more scrupulous but Oliver doesn't care either. If Luc Chantal wants to kiss him, and says he won't regret it in the morning, Oliver will take it. He kisses him, and Luc pulls him down on the bed. 

Luc's mouth is wet and easy, his hands insistent. Oliver hisses as Luc knocks against the gash on his side. "Sorry," Luc murmurs, hands gentling. 

"Don't be careful with me."

There's a frantic shuffle to get out of their layers. Luc flips him onto his back and kisses wet and open mouthed down his belly. 

"Come up here," Oliver says pulling him up because as heady as the thought of Luc's mouth on his dick sounds, he can't stand the thought of him being so far away, wants to wrap around him, wants to kiss him and never stop.

Oliver's side hurts and Luc's mouth tastes like brandy, and the straw of the mattress is sharp against his bare skin, but Luc's dick, wet and leaking rubs against his own and Oliver wraps his around them, legs tangling with Luc's and it feels perfect. 

"Oli, Oli," Luc breathes into his mouth.

After, Luc pulls him tight. In the dark of the night, he says, "when this is over, you should come back to Paris with me." 

Oliver kisses his cheek in answer. The door creaks open, and then shuts, and Beatriz slides into the blankets with them, on the other side of Luc. She's in trousers, and a sweater, and she squeezes Oliver's hand over Lucs chest. 

"No one will care, in the part of Paris where I used to live if we wanted to…" Luc continues with a shrug. "We could get a place, Oli. You could write. That's what you want to do, right?" 

"Yeah," Oliver breathes, imagining writing in a little apartment in Paris, sharing a bed every night with Luc. 

"You could meet my parents," Luc whispers, and he sounds so young, and hopeful, and sad. "They'd love you." 

"Won't they mind?"

"They're existentialists. Radical free thinking poet scientists types. They wouldn't care. They wouldn't care if I brought you _and_ Beatriz back."

Oliver… doesn't hate that option. Shocking as it sounds. 

"I'm going to flight school, after the war’s over." Beatriz murmurs, "but I might come visit."

"I'd like you both to meet my mom too," Oliver tells them. 

Luc threads his fingers through Oliver's. "We'll introduce them when the war’s over." 

"We will," Oliver promises. "Go to sleep, Luc, we'll need our rest."

Martin shakes them awake. 

"We were just…" Oliver tries to explain.

Martin rolls his eyes. "Don't know what you're talking about and if I did I wouldn't give a fuck, my friend. Get dressed, we leave in 15." 

Oliver's packing up the radio, Beatriz and Giroux murmuring together quiet plans, when Luc comes out of the room. Scarf wrapped around his neck, unlit cigarette in his hand, hair in a rakish disarray, he looks back to his own indomitable self. Le Voleur, who the Gestapo hate so much, the thief that steals their supplies and ruins their trains and disrupts their roads. All the vulnerability and fear are gone from his face. 

"Okay, boys," he says, "We know our objective. We have each other. Keep your head up. Stay calm. Vive la résistance!"

It's two hours from dawn on June 6th, 1944, and they have a railroad to destroy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do they live through D-Day? Is Dr. Lucs Mom ok? Does Beatriz become a pilot? Do Oliver and Luc end their days together on the French Riviera, a couple of old happy queer writers and poets?
> 
> Dudes you know I only write happy endings.


	15. Impact play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 14 - Impact play  
Daniel from PR and his husband Kris

Luc Chantal is Kris’s favorite hockey player. Has been his favorite hockey player since the GM of the San Jose Sharks turned a shade of dark puce on live television, and realized he’d lost his face-of-the-franchise in an expansion draft. Kris, sitting at home watching the first sports draft he’d ever seen in his life in their brand new townhouse in Quebec, French Duolingo open on his phone, boxes still packed in almost all the rooms, had seen the ensuing kerfuffle and thought about his husband, and this new job they’d uprooted their life for, and thought about how much Dan was going to enjoy coming home after the absolutely brutal day of press work ahead of him. Kris was going to be waiting by the door on his knees and maybe Dan would just fuck his mouth right there, to get the tension out, or maybe he’d wait, and eat dinner and then bend Kris over the table and spank him until his ass was raw. Kris had squirmed on the couch in anticipation all through the next three hours of TSN and ESPN color commentary. He’d never watched ESPN before in his life, but he was beginning to think he could get into this whole sports thing. 

So, yes. Chantal is Kris’s favorite hockey player and he’d lived up to that title thoroughly from the start of the star’s first day in Quebec, when Daniel had come home, jaw tight and Kris had asked, “What happened?” 

Daniel had poured himself a glass of water, drank it very slowly, and then said, “Luc Chantal is married to Oliver Jackson, the first line center for the Philadelphia Flyers,” in a calm, even tone. 

Kris had taken his phone out and googled. The internet was full of pictures of the two of them, sweaty and leaning against each other like the first two minutes of some fairly genre specific masc for masc type porn. “The new handcuffs came in the mail today,” Kris had answered brightly. “Do you want to cuff me to the bed and use your favorite flogger?” 

Dan had kissed him, controlled and possessing, hand at Kris’s jaw and then said, “You are such a good boy.”

“When I want to be,” Kris had agreed with a grin. 

An hour or so later, sated, deep and boneless in Dan’s lap, being fed grapes one a time, he’d said, “I really like Quebec so far.” 

Moving to Quebec had been such a good move, honestly. The stress of Dan’s old job had been the long, wearing kind of stress of joyless corporate meetings, ad campaign numbers, and uninspired, frustrating management that made less for exciting sexual release of tension, and more for nights curled up around each other under a blanket watching YouTube videos together, (or, worse, nights where Kris was curled up watching videos and Dan was stuck to his work laptop, hand looped distractedly around Kris’s ankle.)

The general level of improvement in Dan’s quality of life in his new job had meant a marked improvement in his libido. The first woman head coach in the NHL gave Dan’s work some unique challenges, but it was a challenge he was actually invested in, and he had support from his upper management like he hadn’t had before, and a PR team he genuinely liked, and all sorts of new ideas he was getting to implement. More creative control than his last job, better colleagues. It was still work, it was still stress, but it was different and he was happier and Kris was so glad they’d taken the leap. 

As far as Kris could tell his only real source of irritation was Dan’s firm belief that _someone_ needed to teach Luc Chantal some restraint, but since Dan’s position as head of Nordiques PR very obviously didn’t allow him to 1) stick Chantal’s cock in a cage or 2) take Chantal over his knee every time he strayed off of Dan’s script, it meant that Dan was coming home with all sorts of inspired ideas that he got to act out on Kris instead. 

Their sex life hadn’t been so good since the first two years of their marriage. 

Kris makes dinner, opens the mail, and puts away the dishes in the dishwasher, all with his favorite plug in his ass. Kris’s phone is set to get alerts any time Chantal’s name makes it into the news, and he’s only gotten one notification today and that was just a boring article about the first trickle of team members coming back to QC for the start of the second pre-season. Boring, but he and Dan have a loosely, quasi-24/7 dynamic (with lots of wiggle room for real life butting in its head), and plenty of scenes that don't revolve around Dan venting his work-frustrations on Kris’s very willing flesh. And Dan is a firm believer in maintenance spankings. Which is what Kris is hoping he can get tonight. His own work is stressful enough that he _needs_ that release at home, that knowledge that Dan, controlled, calm, reasonable, always thinking Dan is taking care of him, will hold him down, will take him apart and put him back together, neater than before.

It takes Kris half a second to tell, as soon as Dan walks in the door, that he is definitely getting his spanking tonight. And it’s going to be _amazing_. 

Kris helps him out of his coat, and hangs it up. Dan sits down on the bench by the door and Kris kneels right there to unlace his boots. 

Dan runs his fingers through his hair. “You’re being very attentive, did you want something?” 

“I just want to help, sir.” All wide-eyed faux innocence. 

“Hmmmmmmm.” Dan is clearly amused by that, but he lets him pull off his boots. He lets Kris kiss just above his knee, through his trousers. Then tugs on Kris’s hair. “Out with it.” 

Kris kisses his knee again. “I want a spanking tonight, sir, please.” Sweet as honey. 

Something flickers through Dan’s eyes and he says, “You don’t have to. Just because I’m in a mood--”

There are probably houses with dynamics like theirs where the sub isn’t supposed to interrupt the dom but this is not one of those houses. Dan says he likes Kris bratty, when he’s trying to be and when he’s not trying to be but just is. Kris says, “I have been daydreaming about you turning my ass red and making me cry since 2 p.m. today when the contractors called to tell me they were going to be a month and a half behind schedule, _already_.” 

Dan tugs his hair some more, this time sympathetically, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’ll get you out of your head. Thank you for being good and asking me for what you need.”

They eat dinner. Dan tells him what a good job on it he did, and they do the washing up together. Dan gives him a few swats at the sink and his hand connects with the plug through Kris’s jeans. 

“You little slut,” he says approvingly, “did I tell you to put that in?”

“No,” 

“What makes you think you get to decide what goes in your ass?” 

Kris shrugs, stomach doing excited somersaults. 

Dan scoops him up and throws him over his shoulder, hands still soapy and warm from dishwater, and carries him into the bedroom. 

“Get your pants down and your ass up,” he tells Kris, “Do you want my hand or the belt tonight?” 

The belt! Kris hadn’t thought about the belt as a potential for tonight, but ohhhh if that was on the table. 

He strips himself down in seconds, gets into position on the mattress, head down and ass up, “The belt, sir, please, the belt.” 

The whispering slide of the Dan’s leather belt sliding out of the belt loops of his perfectly tailored trousers made Kris shiver in anticipation. He didn’t even realize he was moving his hips and ass in excitement until he could feel Dan’s warm steady hand on his hip, and a laugh behind him, “stay still, you eager little slut,” Dan says, tone all fondness. “I know you’re desperate for it, but you’ll get it.” 

Kris whimpers. Dan’s thumb strays down to the plug in his ass and pushes. The pressure makes it shift and dip, rubbing against his prostate and he gasps at the sudden feeling. 

“Do you want a warm up?” 

It’s tempting. It would feel good. A warmup with Dan’s hand would mean that by the time he got the belt it would hardly hurt, not in a real way, just in a good way, and Kris would be a desperate, horny, squirming mess of need. But Kris _wants_ it to hurt tonight, he wants the shock of being brought out of his head and into his body and he wants to _feel_ that first slap of the belt, really feel it. 

He shakes his head and then, when Dan slaps his ass in rebuke, because Kris knows he needs to give verbal answers when they’re playing unless his mouth is full, he says, “No, sir, just the belt, sir.” 

“Remarkable how mannerly you can remember to be when you want something,” Dan hums, and then, because he is _wonderful_, the best husband anyone could ask for really, gives Kris exactly what he’s been needing. 

The first blow of the belt on his ass _hurts_. Red, sharp, stinging pain that takes his body by surprise if not his mind. 

By the fifth his ass is a warm throbbing heat. By the tenth his eyes are stinging. By the fifteenth he breaks down and lets the tears and frustration of the day come out of him in big sobs. There’s a pause, just briefly in the strikes, Dan’s hand on his back, an opportunity for him to say red or yellow. He sniffs and cries, “green, sir,” in between sobs, and Dan carries on, belt unerring and ruthless. 

Dan arranges his blows in an even concentration over Kris’s cheeks and mercilessly over the crease above his thighs. Kris whimpers and howls, cock leaking onto the quilt, wanting desperately both for it to stop and never end. 

Dan hadn’t asked him to count and Kris quickly loses track. There’s nothing but the belt, and Dan’s arm swinging it, and the plug, jostling in his ass and digging against his prostate and keeping him rock hard through every blow. He wants to come. He wants to come so very badly, and he may be a brat sometimes, but he knows better than to come without permission while getting something he’d asked for. 

“Please,” he begs, “Please, I’m so close. Please, let me come.”

“You can come,” Dan says, calm as anything and barely breathing hard, and just him saying it, just that calm controlled voice he has when he’s concentrating on taking Kris apart, just the knowledge that he said it and yet hadn’t reached a hand around, hadn’t made any move, just the expectation that he expects Kris to come here, now, just like this, dick straining and untouched, getting his ass beat, makes Kris’s balls tighten even further, the orgasm building at their base lurching out, and just as he’s there tumbling over the edge the belt lands, this time not across his cheeks but between them, landing in his crease and against the plug, the edge just tapping against his tight balls. It _hurts_, and it’s amazing and it’s awful and his balls spasm and his cock shoots, Kris’s vision whiting out around the edges. 

A few seconds later he realizes he’s no longer in position, lying flat in his own wet spot and Dan is yanking the plug out of his ass, tossing it onto the floor, fingers digging into his tender ass cheeks even has he sinks his dick into Kris’s hole. 

Dan lets out a hiss of pleasure. “There,” he grinds out, one hand in Kris’s hair, pulling him so his back arches and his ass tightens around Dan’s cock, the other hand pressing Kris’s shoulder into the mattress, “is nothing better than the feeling of fucking an ass all hot and red and throbbing. Fucking made for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?” 

“Yes,” Kris sobs, “yes,” because he’s known from the first month they were dating that they were made for each other and he’s so glad it’s still true and that Dan knows so well how to give him what he needs. 

Later, snuggled up together under the covers, Kris yawns and asks, “So what happened at work today for you?” 

Dan’s hands still in his hair before picking back up again in their stroking. “You remember _that video_ of Chantal from when he was on the Sharks?” 

Kris does remember that video. His dick gives a weak little twitch, despite his last two orgasms, at the memory. The PR person for the Sharks had called Daniel to talk to him about that video, not long after the trade. And then she’d told him there was a second video. “I’m nearly 99.99% sure that I have all copies of it destroyed, but just so you know, I’m just telling you, there was a second video.” 

Dan had locked Kris’s cock up for two weeks after that, teased him every night and never let him come. The orgasm at the end of the two weeks had been so mindblowing Kris hadn’t been able to stand for a full ten minutes afterwards. 

Kris is pretty fond of that video. (But more fond of the video of Luc Chantal, in the locker room, refusing to answer a reporter’s questions about Coach Ouellette. That had gotten Kris spanked every single day of the press lock-out, and, for all Dan would never admit it to anyone else, made Dan actually, genuinely happy.) 

“Yes,” he says, already interested. “Did he make a new one?”

“No,” Dan says, “You remember the dancer from it?”

“Sure.” 

Dan’s hand tighten his hair. “He _hired her_.” Dan says in a voice of long suffering and utter outrage, “as his PR manager. She just graduated from college.”

Kris laughs. Not loud, but thoroughly, shoulders shaking in Dan’s lap, eyes tearing. 

“She has a bachelor’s degree with the ink still wet, and one unpaid college internship for experience.” Dan gives his head a shake with the fist in his hair when Kris keeps giggling into his side. “You little brat, be quiet.”

There is no chance in hell of that happening. It just makes him laugh more. “You’ll have to make me.” 

Dan’s voice is fond and exasperated, a smile at the corners of his mouth, “Oh, it’ll be my pleasure, sweetheart.”


	16. Pegging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 15 - Pegging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter inspired by the watch ad in Crowex GTA V, pic of it on superstitionhockey on tumblr (which I will link when I figure out how)

“Chantal.” Henrik says, yanking his suit jacket off in the changing room, “what the fuck. The _WAGs_? That is a clear violation of the Team Rules, article 6, subsection II.”

Chantal, the smirking fuck, just grins at him, like he doesn’t understand that if one’s captain does a _watch commercial_ where he spends the whole 30 seconds mostly naked except a self-satisfied smirk and yet another Audemars Piguet and like, one corner of a rumpled sheet, while a famous Italian supermodel lounges suggestively over his back and then the words _STRAP ON TIME_ wavered in the air above them in elegant font, that it was not just their _right_ but also their _duty_ as a team to chirp him until the end of time for it, and obviously that chirping had to involve decorating his stall with as many strap-ons as the local sex store had in stock. 

“I think you’ll find, Tallberg, that, technically, I am a member of the Nordiques SOs and that clause does not apply to me. I know, because I asked my lawyer.” 

Behind him Jackson sighs wearily. 

“What Chants do?” Buddy asks while he’s folding his trousers over a hanger. 

“He _sent them_ to the _WAGS_. And yes, in this case, I mean WAGs. Obviously he didn’t send one to _Yasha_ since Yasha already comes with his own.”

“What like all of them?” Rosie asks, startled, obviously wondering if Tess had gotten any recent packages. Heh. Packages. 

“Ah.” Buddy nods. “Yes, Yasha already have best. Don’t need one from _Chants_.

“I think WAGS in this case is still a little gender normative,” Socks offers. “Possession of a penis, biological or plastic, doesn’t have anything to do with gender.” 

“Hmmmmmm,” Henrik says, “Okay. Point. A good point. But also not the point at hand, because _Chants_ doesn’t need to be sending _dildos_ to any of the SOs. It’s a violation of the rules.”

“Not just dildos.” Chants is pulling on his Under Armour. “Strap-ons. I sent all the... You know... Accoutrement or whatever, too. You fuckers were the ones that bought them for me, you ought to know what they are. What do I need 15 strap-ons for?” 

Henrik makes an illustrative gesture at Luc and then gets out his phone, texting. “Chants, my lawyer does not agree with your lawyer’s interpretation. I still think you should be fined. Holly, fine him.” 

“I’m not fining him shit.” Holly says placidly, strapping on his jock. “I might send him a fruit basket though.”

Charmander, the _traitor_, gives Holly a high-five. 

“Bergie,” Chants says, “don’t worry. I’m sure Linnea will be gentle with you.”

“Fuck you, Chantal.” Henrik grumbles to keep himself from saying that she _had_ been gentle, and it had been _great_ and that wasn’t the _the point_, the point was that Chants should still be _fined_ for not taking his chirping like he was supposed to, and also maybe for just keeping the whole prostate thing to himself for _years_. It was infuriating to think that Chants had just been having orgasms like that _all the time_ and Henrik hadn’t even known it was possible to come that hard. No wonder Chants always looks so pleased with himself. “I still think you ought to be fined.”


	17. Role play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 16 - Role play

Oskar was wearing a Sens jersey. Oskar. A Sens jersey. It's not like she'd thought he wouldn't, but expecting it didn't make it any more unbelievable in person. 

"Nice jersey," she says, smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. There's a C on the front of it. 

Oskar grins and twists around to show her the back, where the name TEIXEIRA is writ in large blocks above the number 42. "You like it?" He asks. 

Katya runs her hand over it "Yeah." She's a little surprised at how _much_ she likes it. It's not like he didn't have Inferno jerseys as well. 

When he twists back around to face her there's a teasing mischief in his eyes. "I'm bringing a sign, think I got a chance at getting a puck from Captain Canada?" 

"A puck?" Katya asks, innocently, emphasis on the first letter of the word and hand straying over the swell of his ass. "Yeah, you probably got a chance at a puck." 

Oskar steps closer, big frame crowding her. "Oh good, I'm gonna try to get a pass back to the dressing rooms." 

Oskar has a spouse badge, of course, but that's neither here nor there. 

"You might need to show a little more cleavage for that." 

Oskar frowns. "This jersey doesn't do a good job of showing off my best assets." 

Katya leans in and kisses him. "I think it does just fine." 

Oskar's lips are soft and warm, tongue just barely teasing against her own. "Hmmmmm, well you'd know, I guess." He kisses her again then pulls back to say, "I just want to show my appreciation." 

Katya hums and kisses him back, tongue pushing a little deeper. "Sure, you're a big fan, I know, this is a big moment." 

She can feel his smile against her mouth. "Yeah, that's me, huge Sens fan." He barely gets through the end of the sentence, smile dissolving into choked back laughter that his shaking against her. "Oh fuck," he says, still giggling, head against her shoulder, "fuck, I tried, but the fucking Sens." He takes two big calming breaths and looks back at her. He's tall enough, she has to tilt her head up when he's this close. "Are you going to let your number one fan show his support and appreciation?"

Katya bites her lip, "huh, I'm not sure what you mean, you already made a sign. Or was there some other kind of appreciation you meant? Maybe the Canadian mens rugby team is accustomed to a different kind of service than what I got used to with the NWHL?"

"Well," Oskar drew out, "not that _I_ ever partook, since I'm a gentleman of refinement and restraint."

"Of course," Katya laughed. 

"But I may have heard that certain fans of professional athletes," he continues, kneeling in front of her, big hands tugging down the waistband of her sweatpants, "some certain types of fans, who particularly seek out players, "

"Puck bunnies," Katya chirps. 

"Well they're not called that in rugby, but sure, puck bunnies, are pretty happy," he licks, just delicately at her pussy lips, "to show how much of a fan they are, anyway they can." 

"Hmmmm," Katya moans as Oskar licks into her deeper. "Sounds sexist and misogynistic as fuck, and also like a pretty big misunderstanding about the nature of women's presence in sports fandom but--"

She cuts off in a gasp as Oskar puts his mouth on her clit and _sucks_, thumb pressing into her cunt and holy shit. 

With Oskar's tongue working and his thumb pressing into her she quickly loses track of her argument, but when he finally pulls back, leaving her breathing hard and hanging right on the edge, he says, "Sure." He licks his lips, "pernicious permutations of the patriarchy aside, I'm just trying to show my appreciation to the best player in the game." 

"Through my pussy?" 

"Sure, and who could blame them? I'm sympathetic to the plight of the puck bunny. Who wouldn't want to get fucked by someone with legs like this?" He gives her thigh an appreciative squeeze with his other hand. 

Katya tugs at his hair, "maybe you should talk less and get back to showing me what a big Sens fan you are," she chirps. 

Oskar bites the inside of her thigh for that but then gets back to his previous business pretty quick. 

He knows just how to circle her clit, just the pressure she wants from his fingers, and in minutes she's trembling, fingers digging into his shoulders to keep upright as she shudders through an orgasm. 

Oskar keeps his face buried in her pussy through all the aftershocks, tongue gentle but relentless, until she finally slumps over him, legs feeling boneless. Oskar catches her weight, wraps his arms around her waist and stands, holding her. 

"I'm so grateful for the support of my fans," she says in a breathless attempt at her Press Voice, face buried in his left trap. 

"Feeling a little more chill?" He asks when he drops her on their bed upstairs a few inches from her game day suit laid all laid out. 

"Yeah," she says, and grabs his hand, kisses him. All that sick tension that's been building up in her chest at the thought of her first NHL game is gone. He tastes like her, when she kisses him "You want?"

He bites her finger. "You've got to get dressed. I'll save the novelty of getting fucked by an Ottawa Senator for the after game victory celebrations. " 

Katya laughs, even as she fights back a wince, "Calisse, dont jinx it." She wiggles her toes. "Ugh my legs are jelly."

"Yeah babe," Oskar says, "you better figure that out quick, pretty sure you're going to need them tonight."


	18. Just the tip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 17 - Just the tip

They're stuck on the bus back from Providence and Bells is restless and tired but wound up, and if she tries to stare at her History of The EU book anymore she's going to throw it out the window. Her head hurts. The boys had played alright, they’d pulled out a W at the end at least, but that last try was sheer luck and the first half of the match was tragic. She was frustrated, and tired, and this book was the worst, and wrong, and all she wanted was like… an orgasm and to sleep for 12 hours. “Calisse,” she shut the cursed book and closed her eyes, “I need to get laid.” Isn't she supposed to be having more wild times in college? So far it's just flash cards and bossing idiot boys around, both of which are fun, but not much different than high school. 

Conversation in the seats around her came to a shattering, abrupt halt. 

In the resulting awkward silence, Bells opens her eyes and finds everyone in the back third of the bus staring at her. 

Oh. Right. In Bells’ defense, it’s easy to forget, sometimes, that everything, everywhere, isn’t hockey. That she’s just Bells here, now, not _Baby-Bells_, a whole league’s little baby sister. 

Jace laughed weakly. “Christ, the shit you say, for a little baby froshie.” A few of the other guys chuckle, the tension seeping out of the moment. A few guys glance towards the front of the bus where coach and most of the staff are asleep. 

It’s annoying, a little bit, the little baby froshie part. But Bells knows how being the rookie works, so she lets it slide. 

Most of the other guys seem like they’re about to go back to their video games or their sleep, ready to forget it, and then Hayes, of course it’s Hayes says, leers, really, leaning over the aisle towards her seat, “Bells, anytime you need to get fucked, you just let me know, I can probably work you into my schedule.” 

“Hayes,” Jace says softly, voice a warning. 

“What?” Hayes argues, “she’s the one that said she wanted it.” 

But that’s easy. Men are easy. _Boys_ are easy. Male posturing and dominance is tedious, but _easy_. She just opens her book back up, rolling her eyes. “Bold of you to assume I’d be the one getting fucked, Haywood,” she drawls, not even bothering to look up at him. 

Rock crows, and the echoes of “Oooooooh. she fuckin got you, man” and “DAMN” and “Fucking got slapped, Hayes,” ripple through a delighted back half of the bus. Jace claps her on the shoulder, and Rocketman leans an arm over the divider to give her a fist bump. Bells taps her knuckles against his and finally spares Lawrence Haywood a glance. 

“Strap game on point,” she assures him and gives him a wink. 

Except he doesn’t laugh. Or get pissed. He goes _red_ from his cheeks down to his collarbones and looks shy, for just a second, before shaking it off, shrugging Brooks’ hands off his shoulders and saying, “Jeez, what the fuck ever, Teixeira.” 

Bells makes a jerkoff gesture to signal that she’s done with this conversation and his ridiculousness in general and goes back to her homework. Maybe if she can read one more chapter of this utter fucking bullshit of a book, she’ll get an ice cream at the next gas station. 

It should have been the end of it except Hayes _keeps_ blushing. Every time she looks at him. For like… weeks. 

To her utter surprise, somewhere around the 4th blushing maidenly glance, followed by ridiculous bluster, Bells finds herself thinking about it. 

It’s not unappealing. Hayes is kind of an arrogant shithead, when he’s trying to be. His parents are some kind of big deal American politicians. He’s tall, spoiled, and cocky. Good looking and he knows it. It's boring, but whatever. He’d be less boring, her brain supplies, if he were flushed and sweaty and begging underneath her. That perfect blond coif all fucked up, blue eyes glassy with tears and smirk long gone. 

Sitting around wondering about something, wanting something, and not going after it, is not Bells’ style. She can’t really think of a reason _not_ to. 

“Hayes,” she says, three weeks later, in the dining hall, when Brooks has gotten up to go get more yoghurt and they’re alone. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“The fuck, Teixeira!” he whispers. 

“Oh, please. We’re alone. There’s no one around for like five tables. I think it’d be fun.” She thinks it'd be a lot more than fun. She wants to so much, the more that she thinks about it. She thinks it'd be amazing. But, of course, she's not going to tell _Hayes_ that and let him just… smirk his way through the whole thing and _win_.

“Jesus. You can’t just…”

Bells shrugs. “Why not?”

“Jesus. Okay. Um. What the fuck. Sure.”

Bells smiles. “Awesome. This weekend. I have an econ test on Friday, so I’ll be busy until then.” 

“Fuck.”

Brooks throws himself back down in the chair next to them. “I can’t believe they’re out of fruity pebbles,” he whines. “All this fucking tuition and I can’t even have fruity pebbles. Hayes, bro, why is your face doing a thing?”

“I told him that I’m a socialist.” Bells smiles sweetly. 

“Jesus fucking christ,” Hayes mutters. 

Bells glances at her phone, realizes she’s going to be late for class, and stands, slinging her satchel over her shoulder. “Later, dweebs,” she says. She squeezes Hayes’ shoulder as she walks past him. He shudders, just a little, under her fingers. 

It’s only when she’s halfway through her Anth 101 class that she realizes she’s let her mouth get away from her. 

She doesn’t even _own_ a strap-on. 

Well. That’s easy to fix. She opens a new tab on her laptop and a quick search gets her to a site with overnight shipping. The guy sitting behind in the auditorium seating starts coughing. Bells reaches into her satchel, fishes out a cough drop, and tosses it over her shoulder. 

Gear is an easy fix. It's form that has her worried. 

She could ask her sister, of course. But Katya would probably tell her _not to_. Or that it would be beautiful and special no matter what, or something. Katya is her best friend in the whole world, but she is sappy as fuck, and whenever Bells says things she gets this look on her face, like Bells is _missing the point_ and it’s annoying and it will take Bells like an hour to convince Katya that this is not about _having a crush_ \-- it’s about you know… victory. Bells thinks about it some, who to ask, in between taking notes. 

She doesn’t know anyone that plays on the Bruins except one of their undercoaches, but they’re playing the Knights in two days at home, which works fine. Winks is her bro, and, if NHL gossip and the depths of quick but unpleasant social media search are to be trusted, his teammate, Locks, is very good at sex.

Bells shows up to the Knights morning skate. There are a few other women there, and some parents’ with kids, a few journos on their normal morning beat. 

Winks skates by and does a double take when he sees her, then waves. 

When they head off the ice at the end of their practice he jerks his head at her and she makes her way over to their bench. “Come on back,” he says and she hops the railing and follows him back to the locker room. 

“Winkowitch, what the fuck, no girls in the-- Oh, hey Baby-Bells,” the Knights coach says. 

Winks gives her a fist bump then starts stripping off his gear by his locker. Bells gives a few high fives and hugs other guys she knows a little. 

“Hey, coach,” Bells gives him a wave. “Like the way you adjusted your right wings. Good strategy against Boston. 

Coach gives her a nod in acknowledgement. “Now they just need to clean up their line changes. Corkers -- you got media in five.” Coach continues, “You too, Locks. The rest of you, make sure you ice down, okay. I’ll see you back here at 4. Bells, go find a room that’s not about to have press in it, if you don’t mind, so I don’t have to explain your presence to ESPN.” 

“We’re going to Chipotle,” Winks tells her, “you should come with. Give me five seconds to shower, and talk to the trainer, and I’ll be ready. You can wait in the family room if you want, or the changing room, I’ll text you when we’re clear.” 

The Knights nutritionist makes her a smoothie, and Bells fucks around on her phone for a while until Winks tells her where to meet him. 

“Did you drive?” he asks, pulling on his hoodie in the back hall. 

“Took a cab.” 

“Cool. Locks, have you met Bells? From my rookie billet in Quebec.”

“The famous Baby-Bells.” Locks grins and offers his hand. 

Bells shakes his hand, “Yeah. #23, right? You turned the puck over to my brother two weeks ago.”

Locks laughs in delight. “Me and everyone else in the NHL. Come on, I’m hungry. You want to take an Uber, or walk?”

Bells eats her way through a burrito bowl. 

“So what’s up?” Winks asks, half way through his own burrito, “You coming to the game tonight?”

“I can’t. I have a lab at 7 and I’m managing the men’s rugby club, so I’ve got to get up at 5:30 tomorrow for their practice.”

Winks smiles. “I bet you’d be good at that.” He gestures towards the rest of the guys at the table, Locks and Shippsy, and Sevens. “Bossy as fuck, this one, she was managing me better than my agent my rookie year. Whole reason I didn’t get sent down.”

Bells laughs. “I did have a question for you though.” 

“Shoot.” 

“Not here.” Bells says, because it’s easy enough winding up in the media without talking about sex in a fucking Chipotle. 

“Oh, word. You can come back with us to the hotel. I gotta be eyes-closed by 1:30 though. Can’t miss my naptimes.”

“He gets cranky." Sevens jokes. 

Bells throws her coat onto an arm chair in Winks’ hotel room. “So, fucking.” she begins. 

Winks makes a horrified face. “Uh. No. What the fuck.”

“Hell no.” Locks says. 

“The fuck.” Sevens shudders. 

“Thank you, but I’m very happily married,” Shippsy says, unfazed. “Also, you’re far too young for me.” 

Bells wrinkles her nose. “Oh, not with any of _you_. Don’t be gross.”

“Fuck, lead with that then,” Winks says. “I almost hurled.”

“I need advice.”

Winks blushes. “I’m sure, uh, whatever you’re doing is fine, Baby-Bells. Any guy who’s not happy with...”

“Oh my god, ta geuel de crisse,” she cuts him off, “I need advice on _topping_. I haven't before.”

Winks makes a face. “What about that goofy nerdy kid in Model UN with you?" 

"Max? We just made out and like... hands."

Winks makes the face even more. "Jeez. Don’t tell me about that. Ugh.” He looks sort of stricken. 

Bells rolls her eyes. “Stop being a prude. Look, I’m only here because I was practicing and I got a cramp in my hip. Obviously, I’m not practicing with the proper technique, which is worse than not practicing at all. If you can’t help, I’ll leave.” 

“Baby-Bells,” Shippsy says, “you don’t need to be the best at something when you start out, just, explore, with your partner and you guys will figure it out. Anything that you do together will be special and intimate.” 

Bells groans, because honestly she might as well have called Katya if this is the help they’re going to offer. “This isn’t like some hallmark bullshit with my _boyfriend_ or something. I need to be the best at dicking someone down by Saturday night.”

Winks squints at her. “Why would you need to… Wait. Did you talk big game and now you have show up or shut up?” he asks. 

“Maybe.” Bells refuses to blush. Embarrassment is for people who are way less awesome that she is. 

Winks laughs until he’s crying, holding his belly and sitting down on the foot of the bed. “Only you, you fucking idiot.” 

“I’m not going to _lose_,” Bells says, setting her jaw. “I refuse to be _mediocre_ at this. It has to be the best goddamn dicking he’s ever gotten in his _life_. Like, life changing. Just break the freaking play down for me so I can work out my technique, get some reps in by the weekend, and wipe the fucking smirk off his face."

Four sets of eyes blink back at her. Finally Sevens says “Wow. That apple just fell straight down off the branch, didn’t it?”

Locks shakes his head, “Fuckin eerie.”

“Distressing,” Sevens agrees. 

“Disorienting.” Winks nods. 

“You’re all useless,” Bells gripes, two seconds away from grabbing her coat. 

“Have you tried pigeon pose?” Shippsy asks, from his seat on the other bed, “for your hips? Or was it more like your IT band’s too tight? I don’t know what kind of reps you’re doing on leg day but you probably need to roll out your IT band more than you think you do.” 

"You are such a dad," Winks scoffs. 

“Pigeon pose is a good one, though.” Sevens agrees, “and don’t forget to stretch your hammies, of course, too. Stretch like 30 minutes before you invite him over, like really thoroughly. If you don’t use those thrusting muscles in your pelvis a lot it can get uncomfortable at first, but it’s just one of those things that will build up the more you use it. Looks, Bells, this kid’s in college. Whatever you do’s gonna blow his mind. Just aim for his prostate and you’ll be good.” 

“Oh!” Shippsy said, sitting up, “I know what took me a while, I feel like it took me a while to get where I was kinda like, you know, like more of a fluid motion? Locks, lie down.” 

Locks laughs, and lies on his back at the edge of the bed, jean covered legs spread wide, “Sure I’ll pretend to be Mrs. Shippsy. Let me lay here and think about my grocery list while you--”

Shippsy flips him off, and grabs his knees “Come on, big guy,” Locks chirps, “show me your moves.” 

Shippsy stands between Locks legs and says, “So I feel like it’s easy to just,” he makes a few thrusts straight in the air much to the room’s laughter, “but you really just want to like, get a rhythm where you’re like,” he changes his posture and rolls his hips more, thrusting more upwards, “you see?” Watch some… ugh… not regular porn that won’t help. What’s that feminist stuff Brinky watches? We’ll get him to send you a link. It looks like real fucking. You can watch that like tape, and try to imitate the motion.”

“I used to practice with a pillow,” Seven offers.

“Shut up you did not!” Winks howls, “Oh my god, that is so embarrassing. Where's Bucket. I have to tell him."

Sevens blushes, and says, "You _can't _, there's a girl here, it doesn't count."

Winks scoffs. "Baby-Bells does not count for that rule."

"Hmmm," Bells says, ignoring them and adjusting her glasses and getting her notebook out of her purse to start making some bullet points. 

Thursday it occurs to Bells that she should not trust some fucking 19 year old straight frat boy with republican parents to know how to show up to a hookup with a clean ass. She hesitates for five minutes over her phone because he probably has _delicate sensibilities_ about it, but finally texts him an explanatory link and says, “You can show up however you like, I don’t care, and I’m going to use a condom either way, but if you want my tongue anywhere near your ass, it better be spotless.” 

She gets a minute of shocked silence, text message marked “seen”, before he sends back a “the fucking shit you say, Teixeira.” 

By Saturday Bells has watched tape, has practiced her reps, run through the play, and aced her econ exam. She's broken in her gear. She does 25 mins of cardio at the gym that morning, then an hour with the free weights, then takes Shippsy's advice and stretches for like another hour before she ices down. She eats five egg whites for 2nd breakfast along with a bagel, and then goes to start checking gear for their afternoon practice. 

Her roommate's gone home for the weekend, and Bells figures it’s probably Hayes’ first time _like this_ and she should maybe make it special or something, so she washes the sheets (herself! She doesn’t even take them to her usual laundry service) and hides all the dirty dishes under the bed. She only has to text Annette twice with questions about how to wash the sheets. She has a moment of panic where she almost thinks about lighting her roommate’s Freesia Garden candle but stops herself because that way lies madness. 

Hayes shows up at her dorm room with shower-damp hair, in jeans that are obviously his pulling-jeans and a rugby shirt. He looks… nervous, but he takes off his shoes by the her dorm room door, rolling his eyes and chirping her about her Canadianess. 

She offers him a beer, because that is one of three things she has in her mini fridge and the other two are yogurt cups and ice cream and she’s pretty sure he’s lactose intolerant. He sits down on the edge of her bed, and they spend a companionable three minutes mocking each other for their beer taste. 

“Are we supposed to like watch TV now until an appropriate amount of time has gone by before we fuck, or something?” Hayes asks. He still looks nervous. 

“Please let’s not,” Bells says, and before things can get any more awkward stands up, puts her glasses on her desk, and pulls off her shirt. When she gets her hair out of her face, Hayes still looks nervous, but now also looks _hungry_, eyes drawn to her breasts. She pushes her sweatpants down. 

“Fuck.” He says. "You are so fucking hot."

“Take your fucking clothes off, Haywood,” she says. 

Hayes tastes like toothpaste when she kisses him, mouth aggressive and needy and trying to take over until she shoves her hand in his hair and tugs a little and he melts, opening up to her. She nips at his jaw and his neck, and he makes a desperate little breathy sound that she loves _so much_. She plants her hands on his chest and pushes and he falls into her bed with all the satisfying precision of a tree, neatly felled. 

He looks beautiful, all spread out on her bed, all those long lines, the muscles of his thighs and his cock, hard and pink where it’s lying against his belly. The hair on his legs is sandy blond except at the tops of his thighs, where it’s golden and fine, and he has a birthmark at the crease of his right hip. Bells runs her hands up his thighs, appreciatively. The hair on his thighs is just as soft as she thought it’d be, and his skin looks pale and pink against the tan of her hand. 

She must take too long though, admiring, because when she looks up at him, he’s _smirking_ again, hand stroking his cock. She kisses his thigh. 

“Like what you see, Teixeira? We can do this the other way if you want, I don’t--”

She eases down between his legs, when he starts talking, and licks a stripe up one ball. He hisses, chirps cut off effectively, hand tightening around his cock. 

“Christ.” 

She licks him again. His balls are hairy, the hair not as soft here, and darker blond, like on his shins. They smell -- well, they smell like balls, faintly, even under the scent of shower gel. She spends a while there, with her mouth, licking, and sucking, because it’s interesting, the sensations of it, and because Hayes’s breath keeps getting reedier and more undone the longer she spends with her head down here. 

“I’m going to come,” he gasps, jerking away from her a little, and she sits up a little, head propped on one hand. 

“So?”

He blinks at her. 

She grins back, hands back to playing with his balls. “It’s not like _my_ dick’s going to to go soft if you come, come whenever you want.” She lets her thumb drop down and nudge against his taint. 

He gasps, hand tightening like a vice around the base of his dick. “The shit you say, Teixeira, what the fuck. _Oh my god_.”

When Bells nestles herself back down between his thighs, she gives only a few more licks before working down below them. He’s so fresh from the shower he’s still damp, the moisture there tasting more like fresh water and soap than new sweat. She lifts her head up again. “Do you use Herbal Essence shower gel?”

“Shut. Up. Teixeira.” He lifts a leg and digs his foot into her flank, but all that really does is give her more access. She dips her shoulder underneath his leg and lifts, so that his thigh is resting over her shoulder, heavy and thick around her, and goes back to working her way to his hole. 

The first time her tongue touches him there, he shudders, all around her, legs freezing. She licks him again. “Oh my god.” 

“Too much?” she asks. 

“Don’t stop. Fuck, Teixeira.” 

She ducks back down and licks him some more. It’s just about the most satisfying way she could think of spending time. His legs feel so nice around her, and it’s satisfying, the way he trembles at every little thing she does, the needy breathless noises he’s making. She’s turned on, wetness she can feel when she shifts her thighs, and a _want_coiling in the bottom of her belly, but it’s not urgent. She’s going to get hers, she knows, right now the pleasure is all just watching Hayes fall undone. 

Finally she eases back. He blinks glassy blue eyes at her and she pats his thigh, sitting back on her heels. “Roll over.” 

He looks just as good spread out on his belly as he did on his back. All that time on the row machine makes pretty shoulders. She scoots back down between his thighs and pulls at his cheeks. He groans and bucks his hips into her comforter, and she stares for a while at his pretty, tight little hole. 

“I am going to fuck you so good, Haywood.”

“Stop _talking_ about it, and do it, fuck,” he groans into her pillow. 

She goes back to working his tongue into his hole. He’s _tight_, and even though he’s loosening, gradually, with her tongue, he’s still tight enough that when she tries to get the tip of her index finger in along with her tongue, it just won’t go. 

She works more spit to the front of her mouth and pushes with her tongue. He pushes his hips back against it. “Fuck yes,” he groans, and she keeps tongue fucking him. 

Eventually she gets a finger tip in. She gets the lube bottle from where she has it stashed and gets her fingers wet, slides the finger in, slow, as gentle as she can. She was careful, clipped her nails down on her left hand. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Hayes cries, “Slow down a second.” He’s so tight around her finger, hot and tight and pulsing. Jesus, it’s heady. She wants to fuck him _right now_.

“Are you still trying not to come?” she asks, because honestly, her jaw is starting to hurt a little. 

“Yes?”

“You’re tensing up, just come, Hayes, it’ll be okay.” She licks back around her finger, kisses him there. “Just come, with my finger in you and my tongue, and you’ll loosen up. Come on my finger, Hayes, come on.” She crooks her finger, down a little, looking for…. There should be…. Her finger tip brushes over a little bump

“The shit you--” he cuts off, hips jerking. There it is. She presses down and licks at her own finger and his rim and he comes. It’s so tight, when he squeezes around her, she feels fuzzy, head light from it. 

He does loosen up, after that, a little, when he finally finishes coming into comforter. She sits back, stands up. 

“What the fuck….where are…”

“Just need to get ready.” she says, putting a hand on his ass cheek, to calm him down, “two seconds, I just need to get this thing on.” 

He eases up his elbows and looks back at her. He isn’t smirking. His hair’s mussed and sweaty and his face is pink, softened up and sweaty around all his edges. 

The straps are black, and she’s practiced putting them on so she doesn’t fumble with them. The cock is medium sized, five and a half inches, moderate girth. She’s glad she didn’t choose something bigger. It’s blue, with just a slight curve up. She rips open a condom packet and slides it over the plastic. There’s a piece on the back of mount that rubs inside her, against her clit. She’s wet enough she doesn’t need to lube that part. It’s already pressing against her and suddenly everything feels much more urgent. Hayes can’t take his eyes off it. She puts some lube on her hand and strokes her dick. He shudders, eyes big and watery.

She gets back on the bed. “How do you want…? Hands and knees?” He’s still lying on his belly, looking back at her over his shoulder. 

“No. I don’t want…” He goes bright pink all the way down to his chest. “I want… On my back.” 

“I think it’s supposed to be not as easy that way.” 

“I want…”

“Okay, hey, okay, it’s fine, Hayes, I just want it to be comfortable for you.” She pulls at his leg and he goes with it, rolling over. She has to do an awkward little squat, to get over his legs, when he turns. Her cock bobs in front of her. On his back, staring at her, staring at her cock, he looks so good. She leans over and kisses him. His dick’s wet, come smeared against it, half hard. 

“You taste like lube.” 

She bites his lip in response. He palms her tits, thumbs straying over her nipples and she leans into it for a few minutes, kissing his neck and enjoying where it’s hot from his flush before pulling back and getting the lube again. 

One finger goes in easy, but the second takes forever and half way through his cock is hard again and he’s frustrated and grits out, “Fo fuck’s sake, Teixeira, stop fucking around with your fingers and put your dick in me.” 

“You’re still too tight.”

“Fuck. Me.” 

She grabs his wrists, pulling his hands away from dick and pulls them above his head. “Keep them here,” she says, “I’ll fuck you when I want to.” 

She watches the blue of his irises recede into a pool of black. “Teixeira.” 

“You’re here to get fucked, Haywood. Shut up with the commentary.” God, she wants to keep that look on his face forever. His hands clasp into fists but he doesn’t move them. 

She could come just from looking at them, straining and not moving. Insteads she puts her second finger back in. 

“Please,” he says after she’s worked her fingers in and out of him, curling to find his prostate, for a few more minutes. “Please. Fuck you. Fuck you, please, fuck me.” 

“Okay,” she says, heady with it. 

She might have gotten two fingers in him, but as soon as she’s pressing the tip of the cock against his entrance, she realizes her fingers are _small_ and the moderate sized dildo is still going to be a stretch. 

She adds a little bit more lube and pushes. Hayes tenses. He was desperate and begging for it 15 seconds ago and now is so tense he looks like he’s going to levitate off the bed. 

“Fuck, slow down,” he hisses. 

“I was barely in you.” 

“Slow down.” 

“I was trying to slow down five minutes ago, but you were being a bossy fucking little bottom who couldn’t wait.” She is _so close_ to coming. She wants to fuck into him so bad. 

“Shut up, oh my god, it’s _big_. Give me a second.” 

She sits back on her heels and looks at him. “Do you want me to open you up some more with my tongue?”

“No! Just give me a second.” 

She presses her thumb against him. He groans. “Okay, try again,” he whispers. 

She lines the head of her dick up against him and presses. Slowly. “Breathe out,” she says, “bear down.”

“No shit, Teixeira, I know,” he grits out, but he does, takes a deep breath, breathes, out and pushes and the head of her dick pops in. 

“FUCK!” he shouts and squeezes his eyes shut. She holds still. 

“Just… just stay there.” he says.

“Okay. Does it hurt?” 

“Not exactly. It’s just so much, can you just… just with this?”

Bells lets out a shaky little laugh. “Just the tip, Hayes?”

“Fuck you,” he laughs and lifts his legs a little. “Yes, just the tip.” 

She rocks, not pushing in, just… moving, shifting the tip inside him and he groans and clenches. She pulls back a little, pushes the tip back in. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he grunts, “Okay.” The rocking rubs inside against her clit, edging her even closer. 

“Hayes…” 

“Fuck, okay, okay, some more, deeper.” 

She pushes in, leans into him, over him, as her cock slides into him until she’s inches from his mouth, over top of him, his breath warm and wet against her mouth. 

“Fuck, hold still,” he breathes against her. “It’s too much.”

Its awkward, but she slips a hand down to where she’s inside him. He’s taller than her, he’s got his legs up, leaning up against her, and she slips one finger, still slippy with lube against his rim. His cock twitches against her belly. She slips the tip of her finger back into him, alongside her dick.

“Fuck!” He shouts, “Fuck, It’s too much. Stop, take it out.” 

She pulls her finger out. 

He blinks. Stares at her. She kisses him again. “Better?” she asks. 

“Oh my god, Teixeira, did you really do that prom night virgin bullshit to me?”

“Did it work?”

“Yes,” he grumbles, “Jesus fuck, you are the worst.” He bucks his hips against her, brings his legs up, wraps them around her. “Fuck me.”

“Alright,” she smirks, and plants her hands on his chest and thrusts. 

Hayes comes a second time around the time she has her bed frame slamming against the wall. He’s got one leg wrapped tight around her, the other planted on the mattress to push up and meet her thrusts. She’s sweating, and trying to remember the keep the angle right to keep nailing his prostate despite the fact that the constant rubbing against her clit means she’s on what may be orgasm number three or might just be some constant never ending orgram that is going to make her lose her fucking mind and makes it _really hard_ to think about anything else. If he doesn’t come soon she’s going to die. She wraps a hand around his dick, and it’s so wet, leaking, her hand sliding around, and he comes with a _shout_, the bed making another loud thump against the wall. 

She collapses on top of him. Her legs are trembling in a way she can’t stop, boneless, and she’s gasping. 

“Calisse,” she pants.

“Fuck,” Hayes moans. 

“Am I dead?”

“Your hair’s in my fucking mouth,” he mumbles and tries to move his head away from her. 

“Fuck you, I can’t move.” 

“Pull your dick out, asshole.” 

She shimmies a little, and eases out of him. He whimpers and pulls at the tabs of her straps, taking the thing off her hips, and she falls back against his chest, kicking it away. He wraps an arm around her, holds her close to him. 

“See,” she mutters into his chest. “Strap-game on point.” She holds up a fist, somewhat limply. 

He taps his free hand against hers. “Yeah, yeah, Teixeira, strap-game on point.”

She smiles. "That was definitely the best sex you've ever had." 

"I'm fucked." He sighs. 

They lie there for a while, sweat slowly cooling. Hayes rolls them around, maneuvers them under the blanket. The wet spot is cold and wet and unpleasant, but he shifts it around so it’s not on them. 

“Are you really a socialist?” he asks, finally. 

“Yes.” 

“Jesus.” 

“Not a Christian either,” she adds, just to fuck with him. “Is your dad really some shitty congressman, like Brooks says he is?”

“My dad’s an asshole, can we please not talk about him right now? Or ever.” 

“Sure.” She wiggles her toes against his leg, rubs her cheek against his shoulder. 

“Do you like it the other way?” he asks, after a few minutes of silence. 

She shrugs. “Maybe?”

“Maybe?”

“I’ve never tried it before.” 

He goes still all over. “You’ve never…” He groans. “Like, never ever?”

“No. Just like… hands and mouths and stuff. Never, like that.” 

He groans. “Fuck, alright, give me like fifteen minutes and a glass of water or something to rehydrate.” 

“You wish, Haywood.”


	19. Bondage/Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 18 - Bondage/Ritual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a rope rigger, so, you know, probably lots of technicalities I got wrong

They have one of the rooms at the club reserved, but the door open, because for all he pretends he doesn’t care either way, Luc really does like an audience sometimes. Maybe it’s all the hockey, the sheer force of habit of having been _watched_ for so many years, of performing, maybe it’s just Luc. Jacks isn’t quite sure, but doesn’t mind. They’re going to have an audience either way tonight because Jacks is tying Luc up under the guidance of Bill, master rope rigger. And Jesse, Master Bill’s _boy_ is kneeling on a cushion watching. 

Jacks lays out the things for the night. Rope. Scissors. Lube. A few more things from his bag. He lays snacks, this time an orange and a protein bar, out on the little table, along with a bottle of light blue Gatorade. There’s a blanket in the bag, too, quilted, with the softest microfiber on the other side. Luc rolls his eyes at Jacks’ careful arrangement of it all, but is smiling when he pulls his t-shirt over his head and pushes his sweatpants down. 

“Isn’t he pretty,” Bill remarks as Luc stretches, arms above his head. Luc laughs, and doesn’t even try to be subtle about flexing his chest when he brings his arms down, rolls his shoulders to loosen his neck. Jacks pulls his gloves on, and feels the scene settle around him, mind sinking into the role, like lacing on skates. 

“You don’t need to wrap the end around that many times,” Bill says, as Jacks finishes binding Luc’s arms behind his back. They’d modified the angle a little bit, at Jacks’ request, Bill explaining how to make the adaption. He and his boy were getting older. They’d found lots of adaptations, through the years. 

Jacks pauses. “Does it matter if I do?” he asks. 

“It’s not going to hurt anything, but it doesn’t do anything for the tie, either.” 

Jacks thinks about Luc, taping his sticks, the nine careful motions. “Luc would rather I wrapped it two more times, probably.” 

“Hey, however you like.” Bill shrugs. 

The rope from Luc’s back goes up to a suspension point, then down, to loop under Luc’s thigh on one leg, lifting that bent leg up, making him balance on the ball of his foot on the other. 

“He’s got good balance,” Bill observes. 

Jacks snorts. Three days ago Luc was rocking Hank to sleep standing on a balance board in their living room. “Yeah.” 

Bill laughs at his tone. “Sorry, I forget sometimes. More of a football man, myself.” 

Luc’s gagged, a bit gag that could connect behind his head to rope tying his arms if they wanted. Jacks is still deciding on that one. But he doesn’t need to be able to talk for Jacks to know what he’s thinking. The hazy blissed out look recedes as his eyes sharpen and he looks, pointedly, at the two of them. 

“He’s judging you,” Jacks says. He runs a hand down Luc’s side, in apology, “Sorry, Chants, no more talk about American football tonight.” He brings his hand up to Luc’s mouth. Touches the corner of it, traces his thumb across his lip. Luc works his tongue around the gag, presses it against the leather of Jacks’ gloved thumb. “You’re doing so good, Chants,” Jacks assures him. 

The lines from Luc’s bound leg wrap next around his groin to connect up with rope around his torso. Jacks does the ties around Luc’s hard dick carefully, slowly, tying it up against his abdomen. It’s flushed dark red and twitches whenever Jacks touches it with his gloves. A bead of precome wells up at the head. Jacks smears it with his index finger and Luc groans. They’re using softer, thinner rope here, than the rope around Luc’s arms and legs. Jacks takes a second segment of it, loops it around Luc’s balls and back between his asscheeks to connect with the knots at his back. 

Bill says, “if you make a knot, just here, it will rub against his hole whenever he moves.” Jacks makes the knot. 

They’re all done. “How’s your shoulder?” Jacks asks. Luc blinks at him, slow and lazy. He’s got a ball, in the fist of one hand behind his back, if he really needs it, but Jacks can hear him through the bit gag pretty easily. It’s not like it completely blocks off his mouth. 

“Guhhhd,” Luc answers, pupils huge. Despite the gag, his jaw is loose, relaxed, and despite the tie pulling his shoulders back, there’s no real tension in his neck. Jacks likes the look. Decides he’s definitely not connecting the gag to the knot system at the back. 

Jacks steps back. Luc is beautiful. Fundamentally, earth-shatteringly beautiful. The position shows off the muscles in his legs, his flexed calf, the definition of his quads. The length of him. The strength. “You’re so gorgeous,” he breathes. Luc smiles around the bit at the praise. 

Bill strokes his beard. “With balance that good, he’s hardly sweating this. Seems like he’s going to need something to make it a challenge.” 

They’d talked through a variety of different ways to culminate the scene, when mapping it out before. Luc hadn’t particularly wanted to choose one over the other. “I trust you, mon chum,” he’d shrugged, and just okayed a list of activities, declined a few others. Jacks had brought everything he’d need for whatever direction it seemed like they might be more inclined to go. 

“You wanna have to work for it?” he asks Luc, but he already knows the answer. Luc isn’t going to be _really_ satisfied unless it’s a challenge. 

“I brought that deerskin flogger,” Jacks tells Bill. 

“That’ll work nicely, and we can work on your technique.” There’s a crinkle around the corner of Luc’s eyes at that, like he wants to make a joke, and Jacks can hear the chirp in his mind, without him even saying it. Bill is right. Luc is having a good time, a _very good_ time if the state of his cock is anything to go by, straining hard and tight, foreskin fully retracted, head a deep, urgent red. But if he’s still thinking enough to want to chirp Jacks about practicing his wrist shot, he’s not being pushed enough. 

Jacks has his own rituals. He hefts the flogger a few times in his hand to feel the weight. Runs his fingers down it to check it’s in good order, the way he’d checked all the rope before they’d started. Keeping your gear in good condition is important. Jacks kisses the corner of Luc’s mouth. “Ready, Chants?” he asks. 

They’ve got a crowd. It’s not surprising. Luc, straining to maintain balance, thighs and chest pink from Jacks’ flogger, is an enticing sight. There’s a thin sheen of sweat over him, catching the light, and his _face_. Open and panting and _wanting_. Jacks’ dick is hard, digging into the zipper of his jeans, insistent. 

Bill is offering the occasionally commentary about Jacks’ angles, but has mostly left them to it, sitting in a chair with his boy between his legs, fingers buried in Jesse's gray salt-and-pepper hair. Jacks lands two more blows, in rapid succession, to Luc’s thighs and goes to check on him again. His thighs are trembling. Jacks takes the bit out. 

“How you doing, Chants?” 

Luc turns his head into Jacks’ hand, mouths at his fingers. Jacks pushes two of them into Luc’s mouth and Luc sucks on the leather, desperate. 

Jacks tugs his hair, drags his fingers out of Luc’s mouth. “Hey,” he says, “focus for a sec. How are you hips like this? Can you hold it any longer, do you need to come down?” 

“I’m good,” Luc breathes. “Jacks, fuck me.” 

“I’m getting there. How are your shoulders?” He checks Luc’s hands, his fingers. They look fine. “Anything tingling?”

“Fine… Jacks…..” 

“I’m going to fuck you here, just like this; can you keep standing like this when I’m fucking into you, Luc?” 

Luc just groans and tries to get his mouth on Jacks’ fingers again, so he takes it as a yes. 

Honestly. he could probably untie it, but also, fuck it, two snips with scissors, and the rope between Luc’s cheeks falls loose. Jacks is not wearing his _good_ gloves. He’s got no problem pouring lube onto his fingers, and pressing them against Luc’s hole. Luc moans, and clenches, and starts muttering a quiet refrain of curses as he pushes his index finger into his hole. It goes in easy, and he adds the second finger quickly. When he finally pulls his fingers out, and undoes his jeans to get his cock out, he has to take a few steadying breaths, just to make sure he doesn’t come as soon as he pushes into Luc’s hole. 

The way Luc’s leg is lifted makes the access easy, but the way Luc sways and rocks, balancing on his other leg, leaning against Jacks’ weight, makes Luc _clench_ around him and Jacks’ gut squirm with how turned on he is. With how _hot_ it is, Luc tied up and helpless and desperate for it, all his strength and grace and power on display--for Jacks. 

When he finally gets himself together, he wraps his arm around Luc, and starts thrusting. It isn’t going to last long, despite his best efforts. He can already feel his balls tightening. At least Luc isn’t likely to last any longer. Jacks brings his lube-free hand up to Luc’s face, cups his chin, forearm pressing against Luc’s throat, not hard, but giving Luc that much more contact against the leather of his jacket, a little bit of pressure. He shoves his fingers in Luc’s mouth, and with his other hand strokes Luc’s cock, feeling the texture of the rope still holding it against his abdomen, rubbing his thumb over and over his wet head. The trembling in Luc’s legs intensifies. 

“Come on, Chants,” he breathes and rubs his thumb against Luc’s frenulum, then down to the rope pressed against his shaft, “come on, I want to feel you come around me.” 

Luc comes with a shuddery exhale, Jacks’ name wet and begging against the fingers in his mouth, legs tensing and then buckling, cock spurting into Jacks’ hand and twitching against its ropes. Jacks squeezes his hand around Luc’s dick as he comes, and thrusts into that clenching heat, following after him. 

Jacks has his own rituals, for taking Luc down. An order of operations, for easing him onto two feet, and undoing the knots, while he lies sated and fucked out on the mat. The room empties, Bill leaving with a squeeze to Jacks’ shoulder and a “good job.” 

Jacks loves this part almost as much as the rope, and the flogger, and the fucking. Maybe more. Luc is boneless, every muscle in his body loose, eyelashes resting against his cheeks, trusting Jacks to take care of him. Jacks rubs his wrists, checks his circulation at all the critical places again. Gloves off, fingers tracing the rope indents around Luc’s torso and thighs, marveling at marks he got to leave on Luc. He cleans up the come around Luc’s dick, and seeping out of his hole. He wraps him in the blanket and pulls him close.

“I’m awake,” Luc says as Jacks wraps him up. “I’m fine, Jacks.”

“I know.” He’s sitting on the mat with his back to the wall, and Luc between his legs, leaning against his chest. Jacks is always the big spoon, for this part, right after, but later in bed, Luc will be the big spoon. Even if they go to sleep the other way, they’ll wake up with Luc wrapped around Jacks. 

He reaches up and gets the orange from where he positioned it, digs his finger into to break the skin, presses a kiss to Luc’s temple as he holds the first segment to Luc’s lips. 

“You’re so good at this,” Luc says, after half the orange, and the whole bottle of Gatorade. 

“Working on it,” Jacks says. 

Luc huffs a silent little laugh that Jacks feels against his chest. “Bill thinks you need to work on your wrist shot. We’re going to need to get some more reps in.”


	20. Endurance/Cream Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 19 - Endurance/Cream Pie
> 
> If this chapter were a standalone ficlet, I'd name it Quarterdecking

She's mad. Not like… actively or whatever, but still pretty fucking mad since he told her two weeks ago. They're not even dating, but they've been fucking, off and on for 3 years. And more, they're _friends_. It's probably her right, to be mad, when he does dumb shit. It's not like he isn't aware, how dumb it is. 

"You aren't getting tired, are you, Haywood?" Teixeira asks from where she's seated on his back, between his shoulders, feet on his ass, paused between chapters of the book she's reading. "I hear Marines are _way_ into pushups, you're gonna need to up your game. Give me 25 more." Yeah. She's still mad. 

Two weeks ago, he'd signed the papers, showed them to Bells that night. 

It had not gone well. 

"Fuck you, Teixeira," he'd yelled, cutting her off about 6 minutes deep into a rant about the industrial war complex, "you know I didn't have a choice!"

"Everyone has a choice, Haywood! Yours is _fucking_ easy, you say 'fuck off, dad,' and do what you want!"

Hayes had wanted to tell her that joining the Marines was the only way he did know how to say fuck you to his dad. His father had all sorts of contacts from his days in the Army, but not many in the Marines, and the Commandant of the Marine Corps and his dad have hated each other since some fucking cocktail party 15 years ago. He'd fulfilled the letter of his promise to his father, and joined the military. But he'd joined the one branch where his dad couldn't get to him.

Bells had wrapped herself around him that night when he did tell her, a too-small big spoon, and ran her fingers through his hair. "They're going to cut your hair and I already hate them for it." 

They're still friends. They're still fucking. But Bells is definitely still pissed. Like, he'd be worried she send his dad a horse head or something, except she's pretty big on no animal cruelty. She clears her throat, takes a sip of water from the glass next to them and starts in on the next chapter, reading out loud. It's a textbook from their International Policy and Feminism class, about the inherent patriarchy of war. She taps one delicate foot on his ass. "Get going, Haywood." She's a lot of things, but she's never really been subtle. 

Hayes grunts and pushes back up. His arms are shaking. He's lost track of how many sets they're at. Bells is a malevolent tyrant who keeps not skipping all the footnotes and citations.

"1." He counts his reps, "2."

When he gets to 25 he stays down on the floor. His arms are jello. It'd taken him almost a minute to get his arms up on the last press. He's done. He can feel Bells shift around between his shoulder blades on to her knees. He can feel her fingers, cool against the sweat on the back of his neck, her knee bones digging into back. She leans over to peer at his face. She's blurry through the sweat in his eyes, hair hanging down, glasses perched on her nose. "If you can name the country in which the CIA murdered the democratically elected leader and installed a fascist dictator to maintain low banana prices, you can be done."

"Panama," he gasps. 

She steps off him, rolls him over onto his back, hums a little while prodding him with a toe. "You don't _look_ tired enough to be an idiot signing himself up to die to make a handful of evil bastards rich."

"Teixeira…"

"Alright" she says, and pulls her skirt up. It's flowery green and blue, with birds on it. Her legs are long and golden tan. Three seconds ago his head was swimming, arms burning. Now all he can see, think about, is the place between those legs, the little strip of teal cotton and lace covering it, the little damp spot on the cloth. 

She hooks her thumbs in her panties and pulls them down, gets down to her knees and crawls on top of him. 

She smells like the lotion she uses on her legs, and sex. He licks at her clit while she settles onto his face, thirsty for it. She tastes amazing, sweet, just beginning to get really wet. He wraps his hands around her legs to pull her into better position, fingers squeezing her ass, and then drags his tongue to her entrance, pushes inside, then back up to her clit to suck on it. 

Bells, once you get her over the edge the first time, can just stay there. This he knows. She comes the first time when he's got his tongue working on her clit, and a finger rubbing against her asshole, not pressing in. He keeps her there, doesnt let up, brings his thumb on his other hand to circle her clit while he concentrates on tongue fucking her. She squeezes her thighs around him and moans, fingers in his hair, pressing down into it, riding his face.

After she comes the third time, she rolls off. 

"Teixeira," he moans, "please…"

She pulls his shorts down, fast, and efficient, hand wrapping around his cock, then swings a leg over and sits down on him. Not on his dick, just on him, cock underneath her, sliding between her folds.  
She rocks back and forth, hands squeezing her tits through her shirt. Hayes can't look away from her. The flush on her face, the sweaty joy of it, that look she gets in her eyes when she's teasing him. When she's getting what she wants.

"Fuck!"

She slides up and down him, rubbing where she's wet and slick and hot. It's not what he wants, but it's still amazing, and it's enough and he comes all over his belly and between her thighs, dick pulsing against her pussy. 

She rolls on to her back, skirt still rucked up around her waist. "Do you want to clean me up?" She asks. Hayes looks at where his come is dripping, white and glistening between the lips of her cunt. 

"Yes," he says with a growl, and rolls over to bury his head in between her legs again, fingers gripping her thighs to pull them around him and getting to work. 

Later she wipes them off and gets them on his couch. She has grapes in a bowl and they share them while watching some dumb action movie that he's not paying any attention to. Her fingers are soft as they bring them to his mouth, as they stroke his shoulder. 

"How much do you think it costs to have someone killed?" Bells asks when the guy on screen takes a smooth aluminum suitcase full of money. 

"The shit you say." Hayes says into her hair. It's always in his fucking face, but now he just doesn't care any more. Also it smells good. Like her fancy jasmine green tea shampoo. "You can't have my dad assassinated."

"But it's almost my birthday and Uncle Grant was asking me what I wanted."

"So ask for a yacht, or a fortune 500 company or whatever people with billionaire uncles normally ask for, you can't kill my father. Someone will disappear you and I won't get to eat you out anymore."

Bells eats a grape. "Even if I really, really want to and he really, really deserves it?"

"Basically."

"It was just," she wiggles a hand, "a passing thought."

He kisses her. "And I appreciate the thought, Teixeira."

She tenses a little, "what if I---"

"You also can't join the Marines just so you can beat up anyone who looks at me funny and then tell everyone how wrong all their opinions are."

She sags back against him, jaw snapping shut. 

"You'd get court martialed before the end of the first week of OCS training. Please don't." He kisses her head. "Four years and I'm done, Teixeira, it'll be fine. Then I'll go… plant trees or end global hunger or whatever you're working on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That thing about bananas is true.


	21. Threesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skipping ahead to 21 - Threesome
> 
> Hank/Manon/Duncs

Mike's never really been what anyone would call an academic. He's good at hitting a puck. He can skate. It was always good enough.

So maybe he can be excused for the blatant obviousness of the next statement. It's just. It's not like he doesn't know that this relationship with him and Hank and Manon means he's in a relationship with Hank. It’s just - it didn't really feel like being in a relationship with another man until Manon flies to Puerto Rico for her channel and leaves the two of them alone with each other. 

Technically they all still have their own places. Hank doesn't spend much time at his flat any more these days. Most of his suits are moved into one half of Mike's side of Manon’s closet. He's not surprised that Hank doesn't go back to his own place when Manon leaves town. More like he's… caught off guard by how unsurprising it is. By the realization that it would feel weird for Hank to leave. 

Manon takes a cab to the airport and Hank goes to work, and Mike goes and plays 18 holes of golf, and then has an afternoon meeting about some real estate he's investing in. Flipping houses is… a hobby that sort of accidentally turned into a post-retirement career. His cousin's a general contractor. It's nice, fixing things up. 

Hank makes dinner that night, and Mike does the washing up, and they tell each other about their days. They make plans to go fishing over the weekend, sitting on the couch together, watching the Diques play the Habs. Manon calls briefly but has bad reception and is tired from a day of flying and doesn't talk long. 

Mike takes a shower and when he comes out Hank's sitting in their bed, like he does most nights these days. Shirtless, in boxers, reading on his tablet. 

Normally, Mike would be distracted by Manon in her silk pajamas about now, but Hank is. Well, Hank's always had something about him that draws people's eyes. His deep brown curls and broad shoulders, the dark five o'clock shadow and the long lashes. It's not that he's… he's not… he gets that it counts. He's not like… in denial. But also, he’s not exactly sure he wants to do anything but just… notice. 

Hank is just pretty, that's all. He always was a handsome bastard. Sharp and beautiful, arrogant as hell, and sometimes a little vicious, but also one of the best dudes Mike's ever known. Decent and honest, kind and generous, and absolutely fucking loyal. 

Like Manon, even though in other ways they're so different. 

“Coming to bed, hon?” Hank says, not looking up from his tablet, in a dry kind of a voice. 

“Just trying to remember if I turned the oven off, babe.” Mike jokes and slides under the covers. 

Hank grew up like this, Mike thinks, sometimes. Mike didn't . Mike grew up on a farm in the Prairies. His parents are decent, reliable, neighborly. Respectable. 

Monogamous. 

They go out to dinner, and Manon walks down the sidewalk with one of them on each arm. Some voice that sounds a little like his grandmother feels a little scandalized. Mike shakes that voice out of his head. When he was a young, dumb rookie he'd asked Chantal how it worked for him. Their family. 

Chantal had shrugged and said, "Jacks is a good center." 

Mike was 18 and a half years old and it had felt a lot more profound a statement than it probably was. But, still, it doesn't escape Mike's notice that Hank winds up on Manon's left arm, and Mike on her right. 

They eat on the patio of a very nice bistro. A bottle of white wine. Candles on the table. The sunset on the Toronto skyline. They share an appetizer, legs knocking against each other under a just-too-small table, and bicker over the check. Manon wins. 

"I feel very nice," she says, tucking her wallet into her purse on their way out and looking smug, "taking my two pretty boys out to dinner."

"Oh Christ, " Mike mutters, and blushes so much his ears feel hot. 

Mike drove, and his too big pickup truck definitely can make downtown parking challenging but he's got a bench seat, room for all three of them up front. 

Pictures of them at dinner wind up on the internet but no one seems too shocked, and it doesn't make the front page of anything except maybe CDPC, whose article features the photo of them walking three abreast, and the headline reads "MANON LAFLEUR CENTERS REUNITED DLT LINE". 

It's pretty funny. 

Lettsy texts him too say _fuck I wasnt that pretty a center even when I was a rookie_

_Yeah,_ Mike replies, _And now you're bald_

That night he and Hank take turns with their heads between Manon’s legs, eating her out until she's boneless. Mike comes in his hand and across the back of Hank's thighs. On the way to get a washcloth, Hank kisses him, chaste and companionable, a closed mouth press of the lips haphazard against his own. His mouth is wet and tastes like Manon. 

On normal nights when they're all three there, in the bed, they take turns reading out loud from whatever book they've all agreed on. Manon reads tonight, a murder mystery set in Denmark. She runs her fingers through Mike's hair while she reads, his head on her thighs, Hank lying curled next to him, stroking her ankle with his thumb while Mike rests his hand on his flank, fingertips resting against his belly. 

Mike thinks, if he and Hank ever got around to it, he could fuck him, even if Manon wasn’t there, and no one would mind, the same way no one minds if Hank and Manon have sex while Mike isn’t there, or vice versa. But none of them would read ahead in the book, on their own or with just one of them. It seems obvious, even though they never talked about it, that that'd be cheating. They read something else, on nights there's just two. 

Mike goes home to see his parents. It's not like it's a secret, like his parents don't know already, because they have the internet and a television, even out where he grew up, but he still dreads having to vocalize it, out loud, in front of his _family_. 

His parents hug him, and feed him, and ask about his business and his cousin, and his mom skitters around the subject but never mentions it, and his dad waits until they're shoveling horseshit in the barn to finally ask, "Are you happy, with the three of you, are you just getting dragged around by your dick because of a pretty face? Or two."

"I'm really happy, Dad," Mike says. 

His dad grunts and goes back to shoveling. "All anyone can ask. How's your truck running?"

"Just fine."

His mom tells him he needs a haircut and sends him to help Mrs. Walters, down the road, who’s widowed and whose kitchen light switch isn’t working. It takes an hour to unfuck whatever DIY monstrosity of a wiring job is going on in their kitchen and then he spends two more taking care of the leak in the mudroom sink and the way the door doesn't catch correctly. She sends him home with two loaves of cinnamon swirl bread for his mother. 

"You're such a sweet boy, Michael," she tells him, "even all all grown up and famous."

"I'm not famous," he protests. She just waves her hand at the corner of the wall in the living room that has pictures of him throughout his career, newspaper clippings, pictures of him holding the Cup. Its weird, but also, he's pretty sure everyone in their tiny town has a similar corner. When they won, he took the Cup to the Ag Hall for his Cup Day and the whole town (all 75 of them) came. There's a new addition to the framed photos, a printed-out copy of the CDPC article with him and Manon and Hanks. Oh god. 

Mike finds himself blushing. Mrs. Walters pats his shoulder. The skin on her hand is paper thin, hand frail and small. She looks up at him, with a smile. She's wearing a sweater with birds on it, spectacles perched on her nose. 

"Oh, don't be silly, I think it's fabulous how free you young people are. You look happy. And they're very glamorous."

His mom slices one of the loaves of bread and makes coffee. He finds his brother in the other barn, working a tractor. Ben wipes engine grease off on his coveralls and eats his slice of bread in three big bites. He wipes his mouth with his shirt sleeve and says, "I mean, they’re hot, like for sure, Mike, but can either of them change a fucking tire."

Mike shrugs. "Probably. If not they could, I don't know, google it and figure it out."

Ben snorts. "They could call CAA."

"That too."

"Congrats, I guess. You bringing them to Gretchen's wedding in the summer?"

"Maybe? Think I should?"

His brother tosses a wrench at him. "Sure. Give the town something to talk about for the rest of the year. Come on, get under there, the left front wheel bearing is rusted to shit, I need a second pair of hands."

Mike sighs. 

"What, are those designer jeans or something?"

Mike flips him off and crawls under the tractor. 

"Oh, sweetie," his mom says after dinner, "I know I'm being old fashioned, but I just don't want you to get your heart broken."

"I can get my heart broken by just one person, too," Mike tells her. 

"Yes, but I remember college. I remember how things happen sometimes, but how long can three people be stable?"

Ben starts coughing. Mike…. Never ever wants to think about how his mom knows about college experimentation ever again. His dad pats his mom's knee and stands. "Gonna go check on the calf," he says pulling on his boots by the door. 

Mike says, "It works out for some people. Look at Hank's family."

His mom's face is sceptical. "Sure, sweetie, but that's in Quebec."

Ben starts laughing. "Want a beer, Mike?" he asks, still laughing. 

Manon's show gets nominated for a Streamie. She wears wide-legged suit trousers, ballmorals, and a white dinner jacket by Alexander McQueen with nothing underneath except some strategic tape. Her stylist picks Mike’s suit for the night, and Hank’s. Mike walks the red carpet with both of them and Mike smiles and nods and lets himself be photographed, gut twisted up with something like embarrassed lust. There's a part of his brain, old and he knows outdated, that sounds like the boys on his team in the O, that thinks it's all backwards, a beat up old hockey player playing arm candy for a model/actress when it should be the other way around. Manon with one of them on each arm, in suits coordinated to complement her own, like a matched set of show ponies. 

Hank looks unfazed at all of it, the stylist, the clothes, the cameras. They don't know anyone here but Manon does. She introduces them and Hank smiles and shakes hands, with the same sort of blandly charming easiness he uses to make small talk with the deli guy at the grocery store. 

Manon wins best travel show, and they head to the after party, stopping to get photographed and pose for selfies with people for what seems like hours but is probably less than half of one. 

It's a different crowd than Mike is used to, that's for sure. People try harder to be witty. Everyone a character. Mike finds it a little overwhelming. Thinks it would be easier if it was just the same old guys he knows, repeating each other's party stories, the same ones that get brought out every year. 

Manon gets roped into a technical conversation about camera lenses with someone in a violently fuschia suit, and Mike wanders off to find more mini quiches. 

Hank finds him and steals a bite sized something covered in salmon roe off his plate, licks his fingers afterwards and winks at him. A peal of laughter drags both their attention back to Manon and the fuschia suit. Someone else is standing on a chair posing. Mike has no idea what they're talking about. 

"Everybody has it dialed up to 11 tonight, that's for sure," Mike says, but he's not complaining. Manon is laughing. The food isn't bad. 

Hank hums in agreement and then says, "Honestly it's kind of nice to just get to stand here and look pretty and know no one gives a shit who we are. No one wants a sound bite." 

Mike snorts. "Never thought anyone would think I added to the scenery just with my looks." He grins. "That's all you, GQ."

"Awww, Duncs, you're pretty too, don't worry, sweetheart," Hank chirps back, and it's exactly what Mike expected him to say but it still makes his stomach flip and tremble. 

"Oh," Hank says, "look at you blush. Duncs, do we not tell you you're pretty enough?" 

"Shut up, Teixeira, and eat your fish eggs " Mike rolls his eyes good naturedly. 

Hank loops his arm through Mike's. "Duncs, you make great arm candy. Don't feel shy. Manon has great taste."

Hank always knows what makes people squirm. He tells Manon, in the elevator ride up to their hotel room, "Have you seen how much Duncs blushes when we show him off in public?" 

Manon is holding a heavy, shiny trophy in one arm, like a bouquet. She kisses his cheek, mouth smelling like champagne, and says, "My pretty boys, so good for me, thank you for coming with me tonight."

"Oh Christ," Mike hisses, because Hank steps up behind her, boxing her in so she's pressed up against the length of him. The suit trousers are far too tight for him to be as hard as he is. 

"We're in an _elevator_." Mike's protest is pretty weak. 

"So?" Manon asks, mouth ghosting against his, "Do you think people would be jealous if they saw me, how lucky I am?" Her hand slides against his cock, firm and warm through the fabric of his pants. 

He sucks in a breath. "Someone's gonna…"

She kisses his neck. "What's wrong with everyone knowing how well I'm taken care of?"

Hank nudges her even closer, his arm bracing around her, on the wall by Duncs’ head. "Tell him what a catch he is, Manon," Hank says as he kisses the spot where her neck joins her shoulder, and the fingers of his other hand slide into her dinner jacket to cup her breast. 

"Do you know?" Manon kisses against his jaw. "How lucky we are that you love us?" 

Duncs groans and shuts eyes, want bubbling up in his veins; it’s too much to even look at her, it feels like too much to even bear, and then the elevator dings, and Manon and Hank are stepping back. 

There's a sound, a few voices. Other people. Manon’s hand in his, pulling him forward to the door. Mike opens his eyes. 

"Excuse us," Hank says in that dry tone of his, "we were just getting off." 

Someone snorts. Two girls giggle into each others necks. The group is obviously from the afterparty too, tipsy and decked out in party clothes. They walk past them onto their floor. Someone holds out their hand to give Manon a high-five. Mike's dick twitches against the buttons of his pants. 

In their room, Manon sets her trophy down in front of the TV and claps her hands together, like _chop-chop_, all faux-imperiousness, haughty except the way the corners of her mouth pull up, the crinkle at the edges of her eyes. "Alright, handsome boys, less clothes if you please, so I can admire you." 

Hank snorts and starts stripping. Mike pulls off his shirt with locker room levels of efficiency even as his stomach flips and jitters. His dick is so hard, so wet, the fabric clings to its head as he pulls his pants and briefs off. Manon licks her lips as it bobs free. Slides off her own pants. Then she pauses. Realizes with the wide legs of the pants her boots are still on. She blushes and starts to lean down, the awkward and impossible process of trying to sexily get your shoes and socks off. It makes Mike's chest hurt with how much he loves her.

"Leave them on, babe," Hank says, "and the jacket. I'm into it." 

"You would be." Mike laughs and means nothing by it, except what it is, a reflexive chirp, the joy of giving Hank shit. 

Manon laughs and sits in Mike's lap. He slips his fingers into her pussy, wet and hot, rubs his thumb against her clit as she rocks down on his hand and kisses his neck. Hank stands behind her, hands under her jacket again, he can see the movement of Hank's thumb, rubbing against one of her nipples. 

"Fuck," Manon whimpers as he curls his fingers.

Hank kisses her, long and filthy, with lots of tongue. When he pulls back, he says, "How do you want your boys tonight?"

Mike is going to come. He's already so…. He swallows and pulls his fingers out of her. And instead of answering she just kneels up and then sits back down on his dick, sliding home. His hands tighten on her hips as he curses, so close. "I'm not going to last," he warns, voice tight. 

Hank runs his fingers through his hair and then tightens his grip, tilts his head back and kisses him, biting his lip. "Obviously," he says, voice sweet and calm, like Mike isn't two seconds from shaking apart, "you are going to last exactly as long as Manon needs you to last." 

Afterwards, Manon squirms to get comfortable between them, sweaty and glowing and looking extremely satisfied with herself. Manon kisses him, a sweet press on a little dip below the corner of his mouth. 

"My pretty boys," she hums. 

"I'm not pretty," Mike protests half heartedly, "or a boy anymore." He can't help thinking about the gray coming in early at his temples, his beat-up hands, the way he's getting softer in the middle. Even when he was younger, he never looked like Hank. He was just a normal-looking guy who was good at playing hockey. "I'm 36. My nose has been broken five times. I've got _arthritis_.” 

Manon sits up and purses her lips. Her fingers stroke over his belly. It feels good, too much, but good. Easier to just look at the pout of her lips, the red pink of her nipples, rosy and sore from Hank pinching them earlier. "Michael Duncan," she says back in her bossy voice. "You are kind and sweet and smart and funny and handsome and _good_, and if I say you're beautiful, you're beautiful. I have impeccable taste."

"Alright," Mike sighs, that giddy embarrassed uncomfortable feeling that's been worrying in his veins, in his gut, under his skin all night fizzes to the top, pops somewhere in his chest and just...loosens. "Alright. You'd know, I guess." 

Beneath her Hank's hand finds his, fingers tangle with Mike's, and Mike finds himself squeezing them back, holding on. 

Manon sniffs, flicking her hair off her shoulder. "Yes. I would."

Manon has been staring at the same two paint samples for 7 whole minutes. Mike's got the primer in the cart already. 

"The one on the left is a better tone against the color of the countertop top we're putting in," he offers. 

She makes a noise in acknowledgement and then holds the two colors up next to his face. 

"What are you doing?" he asks, face feeling warm. 

"This one," she nods to herself, shaking the one he'd suggested. "It brings out the green in your eyes more."

"_Jesus_, you can't use that to pick a color for your kitchen." 

Manon just smiles and kisses his cheek, and walks off to the paint counter to have it mixed. "Our kitchen," she corrects on her way past.

When they get home, Mike brings everything in. Hank comes in a few minutes later with lunch and the mail. Mike sifts through it, and sees the letter, cream-colored paper, his name handwritten and a familiar return address. 

"What's that?" Manon asks, leaning against while choosing a sandwich. 

"Wedding invitation, I think," Mike answers, tearing the envelope open. He's right and he passes it around to Hank and Manon. "My cousin Gretchen's getting married in June." 

Mike shakes out the RSVP card and laughs. Where it has +1 typed in elegant font, Gretchen has scratched out the one in blue ballpoint and written "+2" and then a winky face. 

"I guess you guys are meeting my family," Mike says, and he tries to sigh, put out, but he can't help the way he grins.


	22. Crossdressing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 22 - crossdressing 
> 
> Temi/a cowboy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know names can get confusing in all these fics, between different nicknames and side characters. This is about Temi, but since its from his POV I figured its probably just NHL guys who decided he was called Temi and he probably thinks of himself by what he was called growing up. According to The Google, Tëma (pronounced more like Tyoma) is a Russian diminutive for Artem.

Tëma hears the door, and voices, a shouted, “Hey Temi!”, and hurries to pull on his shorts and intercept, but by the time he gets there it’s already too late. Progger is standing there in front of the door, mouth slightly open, eyes big, and Dusty is --

Well. Dusty is leaning against the kitchen counter, ankles crossed, eating a yoghurt cup with a lot of aggressive eye contact. He’s wearing what he went to sleep in - a satin and mesh cami set. The tank top is cut, obviously, for a woman, not nearly long enough for Dusty’s long torso, neckline pulling low around his pecs. It’s black mesh with _SAVAGE X_ in big capital letters across the chest. The shorts are soft black satin with a white white elastic waistband that says FENTY in all caps. They are barely long enough to cover his dick, even flaccid. He’s wearing a robe over top of it, but as it’s hanging loose from his shoulders, cherry blossom pale pink silk draped around his arms and leaving his shoulders bare, open and unbelted, it doesn’t cover anything either. It mostly just highlights things instead. Dusty’s long legs. The freckles on his shoulders. The striking contrast where his farmer’s tan vanishes to pale skin. The dark lines of his tattoos: Willie Nelson’s face on his left thigh, the full sleeve of black and gray on his right arm. The roses on his hands. The robe is _vintage_. Tëma is under strict orders to not tear it, or get jizz on it, or wipe Cheeto dust on it, because it’s _irreplaceable, Tëma_. 

Progger blinks. Dusty takes a long slow lick of strawberry yogurt off his spoon. His hair is sticking up in tufts and cowlicks around his head and he’s still got last night’s eyeliner on, smudgy and and dark. 

“Uhhhmmmmmmmm,” Progger says, finally. 

“Not ready yet,” Tëma says, a little hysterically. 

Dusty snorts, tosses his yogurt cup into the trash and his dirty spoon into the sink and exits the kitchen towards the bathroom. The silk robe flutters out behind him as he stalks down the hall. That walk, that prowling strut, isn’t any less hot, even though Tëma knows he practices it, that he is _definitely_ doing it on purpose. 

“I’ll wait in the truck.” Progger says, turns on his heel, and leaves. 

Tëma follows after Dusty, and finds him brushing his teeth, leaning against the sink. He spits and looks at Tëma in the mirror, asks, “Are you mad?” in Russian. Dusty may have grown up speaking Russian, but he hadn’t spoken a word of it since he came to the US, until he met Temi and had someone to speak it with again. His accent has gotten all…_Texan_ at the edges. Tëma loves it more than he can explain. 

“Not mad,” Tëma assures him, because he’s not. He doesn’t care. He just.... Maybe he should care, be worried or something, but he is, as Chants would say, running all out of fucks to give about it. He kisses Dusty’s shoulder, his neck. The silk of his robe is so delicate Tëma can see the dark shapes of the trash polka on his shoulder blade through it. He still smells sweet, like the perfume he was wearing last night, not at all like his usual smell, an equally good but very different combo of Old Spice and diesel fuel, with the slightly chemical citrus top notes of orange hand-degreaser. “Good for him to learn to knock. No manners, these Canadian boys.”

In the mirror, Dusty licks his lips and leans back into Tëma, turns his head to kiss him. He tastes like toothpaste. Tëma doesn’t mean for the kiss to turn heavier, but Dusty’s mouth just makes it so hard to stop. Sweet and hot and insistent. Tëma drags his hand along his shorts, loving the contrast of the satin, the way it feels as he clutches Dusty’s dick, the way it slips over it. How hot and hard Dusty's cock feeps under it. Dusty grinds back into Tëma’s shorts, and Tëma groans, turns him around and lifts him up, ass on the vanity counter. Dusty wraps those long long legs around, pulls him in, pushes his fingers in his hair and keeps kissing him. 

“Are you going to be late for work?” he asks. 

“Ya got six minutes,” Dusty tells him. In English he always sounds a little like he learned to speak English from old Western movies. Which Tëma’s pretty sure he did, actually.

“Can work with that.” He pushes his basketball shorts down, cock springing free, wraps his hand around both of their cocks, the satin of the shorts rubbing between them. He rubs his thumb around the head of Dusty’s dick, thumbing the wet cloth. It makes Dusty gasp and bite his shoulder. 

Tëma shoves his shorts down, brings his hand up to Dusty’s mouth. “Make wet,” he gasps in English, and Dusty sucks his fingers into his mouth, quick, tongue stroking them. Tëma pulls them back, and Dusty spits into his palm. Tëma buries his face in his hair. It smells sweet, too, whatever he’d put in his hair last night. He wraps his hand back around them and starts jerking them faster. Dusty whimpers and grinds into, begs in soft Russian, frantic. 

“Sweetheart,” Tëma says in Russian, “my darling, my darling.” 

Dusty shudders and comes in Tëma’s fist and all over his camisole. He bites Tëma’s neck, again, and Tëma comes too. He breathes for a second into the damp of Dusty’s hair, as his dick pulses, heart beating hard. After a few seconds, Dusty squirms, and Tëma steps back enough that he can slip off the counter onto his feet. 

“Get on to the gym,” Dusty says with a smile, stripping the stained cami off. “Your buddy’s waiting.”

“Okay,” Tëma breathes. “See you tonight?”

“Sure. If you want.” Dusty smiles at him. “I’ll be along a few minutes after you. I’ll pull the door locked behind me, but I won’t be able to get the deadlock.” 

“You can take the spare key,” Tëma offers. 

Dusty pauses. Looks at him. "Alright.” he nods, “I’ll give it back to you tonight. You comin’ to Jay’s?”

“Yes, but you can just keep it.” 

Dusty stares at him for another long second then nods, smiling a little. “Alright. I’ll keep it.”

“Good,” Temi smiles. 

Outside, Temi climbs into Progger’s truck. Progger takes one look at his flushed face, smells him and says, “Really, bro?” 

Tëma shrugs. “Orgasm is good for before workout. Spike testosterone levels before lift.”

Progger huffs, “Yeah, sure, Men’s Health.” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Just like, bro, he was not what I was expecting your type to be.” 

“Which part?” Tëma asks. 

“Umm… all of it?” Progger nods to himself, “Like, yeah. All of it. Is it, uh, like a secret?” 

Tëma shrugs and looks out the window. “I want to play in Olympics.”

“Sure. So what’s that mean?” 

“Means…. Don’t care if team knows, but sucks if so many people know that Russian press can’t ignore.” 

“Oh.” Progger nods, like that makes sense. “So, like, like your bros can know, but nobody that would narc on you?” 

“Yes, sort of.” Tëma sighs because that’s close enough. More and more he just doesn’t care. 

The door to Tëma’s apartment building opens and Dusty comes out. He’s dressed for work, jeans that are clean, but no amount of washing is going to get the engine grease stains out of them. Cowboy boots, the work kind, dusty and worn, heels worn down. Belt buckle. White t-shirt. Cowboy hat. He swaggers past them, climbs into his truck next to them, an old rusted out Dodge Power Wagon. 

“Huh.” Progger says, sounding a little dazed again. The engine in Dusty’s truck rumbles to life, a low bass. “Huh,” Progger says again. 

Dusty tips his at them, and _winks_.

“He winked at me!” Progger gasps. 

Tëma rolls his eyes. “Yes. Probably he sees how much you stare at his ass.” 

“I did not!” 

“Did,” Tëma says. “Drive. Going to be late, want to stop for breakfast.” 

Progger enters the dressing room with as much noise as he usually does. “EVERYONE!” he announces at maximum volume. “Don’t tell the Russians but Temi’s dating a dime!!” 

That gets a few “heyyyys”. Matty pulls his shirt off and cocks his head to one side. “Wait, why can’t we tell the Russians?” 

“Because,” Progger says, “the dime is a _cowboy_.” 

Tëma sighs, but is not surprised by Progger’s interpretation of “it’s okay if the team knows.” 

This addition to the announcement gets a little more interest. 

“Like what kind of cowboy?” Whip asks.

Progger holds his hand up around Dusty’s height. “_Tall_” he says. “Long legs. Like _long_. Cowboy boots. Good DSL? Like. A _dime_.” He nods, then adds, “Big ol’ truck.” 

Tëma sighs. Progger turns to him. “Was that a Cummins?”

“Is 4BT Cummins,” Temi says, because Dusty talks about it enough, he knows. “Just rebuilt with bigger cams." He doesn't know what that _means_, really, but he knows it happened. 

“Oh, wow,” Henny pipes up, “does he like it? I’ve been looking at putting one of those in my truck.”

“Yes,” Tëma grits out, “he likes. I will give his your number. He can tell you about what he did to catalytic converter.” 

“Oh, bro, rad.” 

He takes his phone out and texts Dusty, _Team want to meet Progger tell them all about your truck_. 

He gets back, _she brings all the boys to the yard, alright. Bring 'em to Jay's tonight, they can see the Roadrunner too._


	23. Sweaty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 23 - Sweat

Jacks gets the text just as he's getting ready for bed. _hey do u still run that blog thing?_

_what blog?_

_the fake fitspo one for chirping me_

_I mean i dont update it that often anymore but sure_

In reply Luc just sends him a pic: Luc, neck down, in basketball shorts and what barely counts as a shirt, as rigorously as scissors have been taken to it. He's _soaked_, sweat making the shirt cling, a dark V of wet cloth plastered to his chest, sticking to his pecs. Tracks of sweat trace down his neck, beads clinging to the chest hair just barely visible at his neckline, the pit hair visible with his cutout sleeves. Sweat drips down his wrists to his fingers, makes his the hint of visible treasure trail lay in flat, damp whorls against his belly. 

Jacks dick twitches. _if i post that its just gonna get reblogged by a bunch of porn blogs_

_i mean its not like i’m more naked than any of hte rest of the shit youve posted and i’m not in sharks gear -- can’t see my head, dont think anyone would know its me_

_it’s not the clothes it’s the sweat_

It’s sort of the clothes. But it’s mostly the way the sweat makes the clothes cling to him. Frames all that skin, flushed and shining and wet, underneath. It’s Luc. The shape of him. The focus. The way the sweat and the hair and the muscles makes him look like he could just fuck for days. 

His screen flashes with Luc calling him, and Jacks answers. 

“Hey, mon chum,” Luc says, voice warm, “you can post it.” 

“I can, or you want me to?”

There’s a pause. Finally Luc says, “I mean. I work hard. I don’t care if people want to appreciate that.” 

That makes Jacks laugh, and makes his dick start to harden. “Well there’s a lot to appreciate about you,” he says, “but alright, I’ll post it, if you don’t mind the fact that it’s gonna wind up on like.. Armpit-licking fetish sites or something.” 

There’s a shocked pause and then Luc says, “That’s a thing?” 

“Yes, Luc, that’s a thing. Google it.” 

“You’d make me have to google it myself? Why can’t you do it for me?” He’s _pouting_ the spoiled bastard. 

“You are the only adult man on this planet who’s so fucking spoiled he won’t google his own porn, you fucking weirdo. Seriously, do you really want me to?” Jacks grips his dick through his pajamas. He’s hard, just hearing Luc whine. 

When they were younger, Luc had gotten their shared tablet infested with some malware and Jacks, in a fit of irritation, had revoked his porn-searching rights. Luc had taken this perfectly in stride. An understandable and reasonable penalty. That was years ago, before juniors even. In juniors, Luc was too busy having real sex to bother much with porn. But on the odd occasion where he was in the mood, he’d hand the tablet over to Jacks and bat those irritating eyelashes at him. 

“I always do it wrong.” 

“It’s…. It’s porn, Luc, just go to pornhub and type in ‘gay sweaty’ and hit search.”

Luc whines. Jacks can hear him falling back against the bed. Or a couch maybe. A soft thump, and little exhale of air in Luc’s voice. “I always get weird shit. You’re better at it.” 

“Well, regardless of who searches it, it’s just gonna be videos of dudes licking each others armpits.” 

“Is that a thing you’re into?” 

“No.” Jacks gives up and shoves his pajamas down, spits in his palm. “It’s not a thing for me. You being a slutty fucking exhibitionist who pretends he doesn’t know how hot he is but actually reall really likes it when people _know_ how he hot is, is kind of a thing for me.” 

“I don’t--”

“You absolutely do.” 

“Are you jerking off?” 

“Yes, are you going to join me?” 

“Fuck, Jacks. I am… already. What are you thinking about?” 

“You, with your basketball shorts around your ankles, jerking your cock thinking about how everyone on the internet loses their shit every time the Sharks post one of their fucking thirst traps of you in your under armour.” 

“Jacks….” Luc pants, and Jacks can hear through the phone the wet sounds of Luc’s hand on his dick, in counter-time to his own. 

“You’re so pretty, Chants,” he hears himself say, through the thrumming need, the tightening in his balls, “you’re so pretty and you did such a good job, you put the work in and lean into the grind and you should come right now so I can hear you, think about you coming all over your abs, all over your sweaty fucking thighs.” 

Luc groans,urgent and hoarse. “Oli,” he says, like it’s been punched out of him, and Jacks comes too, into his fist, heart thudding. 

“Christ, Chants.” 

There’s a sound of rustling. Luc shifting around. Putting clothes back on, or shedding them all the way off. Cleaning himself up. Jacks doesn’t mind. It’s just nice to hear him. He cleans himself up as well, pulls his pajamas back up. 

“Stay on the phone with me until we go to sleep?” Luc asks, voice lazy and sated. 

“Yeah, of course,” he agrees, and lies back down, pulls the covers up. It won’t be long, he was tired to begin with. An orgasm is going to put him to sleep fast. 

“Are you sure you’re not into the armpit thing?” Luc asks, and Jacks laughs.

“Shut up, Chants, and tell me about practice today.”


	24. Historical Roleplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 24 - historical roleplay

It was the hair that gave him the idea. Luc missed some haircuts during the postseason, as usual, and then kept missing them, in the summer, and now his hair's longer than it's been in years, maybe ever, falling past his chin, long enough he could pull it back with an elastic. Jacks knows he'll cut it before the season starts, but there's no reason to not enjoy it will he can. 

Right now it's loose and mussed around his face, the white linen shirt Jacks had ordered off some place that makes clothes for ren faires hanging loose and unlaced, shoulders straining where Jacks has him tied to the chair, eyes glassy, and chest flushed. 

Jacks stalks around him, drags the dagger gently over the soft flesh of Lucs throat. "But I want to know what information the British Navy is acting on, and you're going to tell me." 

Luc blinks a low, slow flutter of lashes at him, then shakes his head. Jacks can see the physical change in his face as he surfaces quickly. "What?" He blinks again. "Jacks. No. STOP. RED. SAFEWORD."

Jacks drops the dagger to the floor. "Luc, what's wrong? Is something pinching your shoulder? Let me get you…"

"What? No. Jacks. I'm fine."

"Then… what… we talked about the dagger, is it too much?"

Luc glares at him. "You said before I was a naval officer."

"Yes?"

"You didn't say I was a _British_ naval officer."

"I--" Jacks is… what? "You? Luc. I'm supposed to be James Flint...who else would… I thought it was obvious."

"Well. I'm not _English"_.

"You're safe wording because you can't pretend to be an English officer in the 1700s?"

Luc sniffs, tossing his head, hair falling away from his face. "Je refuse."

Jacks leans against their bed. "Oh my god. What happened to 'I'm from New Brunswick.' Huh?"

"New Brunswick is French."

"Yeah. _New_ Brunswick really sounds like _Old_ Brunswick is somewhere in the hills of Provence."

Luc grins wide. "It's in the Cote d'Azur, actually. Maybe we should go there sometime." 

Jacks runs his fingers through Luc’s hair. Luc leans into, presses against his hand. "Hard limit, mon chum."

"Alright. You wanna keep going? You can be a French privateer. Maybe we're both going after the same ship? Or if you're done, I can untie you." 

"Keep going." Luc kisses his palm, bites at his thumb. "I'm probably super good at beating the English in maritime warfare."

"I'm sure." Jacks smiles, kisses him, and then picks the dagger back up.


	25. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 25 - Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for real, everything about the Everest industry is so fucked up. Maybe decades in the future things are better. Or maybe, in the Superstition universe, they were just better to start with, or some combination of the two. There is a story in my head talking and dealing with the *Industry* of Everest and Luc, but it doesn't really fit into the narrative of this one. Added to the WIP list :/
> 
> While Everest is not a particularly technical climb (which Luc knows, he's not attempting to prove himself as the best mountain climber in the world or something), it is still dangerous, and still difficult in terms of endurance (especially without oxygen), which is exactly the sort of test Luc was looking for. 
> 
> Luc is climbing with Iván and Thursday, two both (fictional) very experienced and talented climbers. My apologies for technical inaccuracies. I tried to be fairly accurate, but it's been a while since I was reading about the Himalayas a lot.

It’s not the sort of thing that Luc _says_ to people because it’s the sort of thing that makes people look at him weird, but summer blood is different than winter blood. 

Summer blood is thick and sticky, slick as it mixes with sweat. Summer blood is fingers pricked accidentally by fishing lures. Asphalt-scraped knees from falling off a bike, a cut on the sole of his foot from a bottle top in the sand. Blood and lime juice dripping down Crash’s back on a Tahitian beach, the kiss of Teahupo’o’s reef on her skin. 

Winter blood is thin and sharp like the dry air. It’s the way Luc’s knuckles crack and ooze in the January air. It’s blood spilling on the ice from a stray puck or an overenthusiastic high stick. Blood, thin with saliva, leaking from a loose tooth, dripping down his throat while staff in tracksuits try to shove gauze in his mouth, standing to the side and over him, trying to shift out of his line of sight, Luc’s focus never leaving the ice. 

Crash says salt water (blood or sweat or tears or waves) is the cure for anything. Luc knows, in the game, in life, you bleed. That’s the price. 

It’s early summer in Nepal, but Luc’s nose drips winter blood in something so thin it feels like only the memory of air. Beneath the fleece balaclava, ice cracks and his lip splits. He can taste it, thin. Sharp. Copper. It’s getting darker. Cold and getting colder. The wind picking up, visibility dropping. Luc was fast to summit, but stayed too long, and the weather has turned bad. The goddess has lost her patience with visitors. 

“Can your knees make it down from The Balcony?” Iván, behind him, shouts over the wind. There's no time to stop and rest here. Before him, Thursday’s head-lantern wobbles through wind-whipped snow. Luc has oxygen in his pack, because Jacks had insisted. Ever since they entered the death zone, it’s all he’s been able to think about. Obsess about. Hunger for. He feels like he can taste it. He’s not going to though. 

“Bien sur,” Luc says. His "good" knee wobbles like jello with every downstep, patella sliding in a way that would turn his stomach if he could hear it over the crunch of dry snow and their constant labored breaths. His other knee, the new one, doesn't wobble like that anymore, but it's ached with the cold since Camp II, stiff in the replaced joint. Much worse than either -- he can’t feel his feet. 

He misses a step and slides, Iván tangling with him. Luc’s mitten pulls off, dragging against rock and ice as he falls on the track. He fumbles for it in the twilight, frantic. His hand, bare in the shocking cold, burns like fire. Ahead of him, the wind swirls in front of Thursday, who stops, turns back to them. He can’t imagine fumbling with the oxygen canister with his mittens, or even the other gloves in his pack, but with the way the cold burns the skin on his hand, he can’t imagine taking them off again for it either. He doesn’t need it anyway, he tells himself. And then tells himself again as he shoves his hand back into the mitten, clumsy with the cold.

Here is another thing Luc doesn’t tell people about the mountain: The shape of the wind and the snow coalesce in front of him. Like figures, spectres of snow and ice and thin hunger. Like the snow-shadows, the slinking long shades that lurk in the swirls of Sveta’s painting, like hungry wolves at the edge of a forest. 

On the ground with his pack underneath him, he thinks -- he could take out his oxygen canister now. He sees the figures wavering in the air, stalking. He thinks, also, maybe he won't be able to stand back up again. His body doesn't want to. But there's ice beneath him in the first week of June, and his body and mind do what it thinks it cannot, like reflex. He finds his feet and struggles to stand, pulls Iván up with him, and sees them still in front of him. He grabs the line again with one hand, tucks the one that lost the glove up close to torso, numb and burning even back in its mitten.

Anyway, there’s no point, his mind repeats. He’s already summitted. Why break out oxygen now? There’s a red spot on the packed snow. His nose probably, dripping again. They don’t have much more to go. Luc focuses on Thursday’s light. On Iván ' gasping breath behind him. Not that much further to go. The light shimmers between the figures, like winking eyes. The mountains of Everest are the most beautiful place he’s ever seen.

_Hello_, he thinks, and nods his head at them. They waver, and split, only weather and shadow once again. 

Thursday's shoulders are tense under the bulk of his down suit. Not far now, Luc thinks he hears him say, over the wind. 

On the rocky ground of the South Col, they dump their packs in shaky relieved exhaustion. The wind picks up. Someone pushes him towards his tent. He can hear, just barely, Thursday say to Iván, "30 more minutes and we'd have been dead." 

In his tent, Luc shakes with the cold, and adrenaline, and relief, and the loneliness of Jacks so far away, and the sweetness of victory and reconciliation, sick and dreaming of air, sweet and heavy in his lungs. He drinks from his thermos of tea, body craving the butter. 

“You’re bleeding,” Iván mumbles, half asleep in his bag already, and Luc realizes he means his hand, where he fell. “There’s blood on your glove.” It’s not much, but sharply visible in the bright light of Iván’s LED headlamp, turned on its side and sitting on the tent floor like a lantern. 

Luc’s whole body aches from the fall, but that feels normal. “The mountain wanted her price.” He wiggles his feet. “I can’t feel my toes." 

“Well, shit." There's a shuffle of gear, Iván scooting closer, pulling Luc's feet towards him. "Crazy bastard," he hears Iván say, "no O2 on your first time up."

"Only time up." 

"Sure. That's what I said too. I got a hell of a shot of you on the summit."

"You can use it." Luc says, because Iván is on vacation but when he's working he's a photojournalist for National Geographic. 

"Uh huh, what do I look like, an asshole. It's a cover page shot for sure. I'll ask again, when you have oxygen in your brain and your PR agent in the room."

“Out of the death zone.” Luc sighs, thinking about tomorrow, about the climb down. About base camp. About Jacks in an airport, air as thick as soup, and just as warm. One more time, through the terror of the Icefall, and then home.


	26. Clothespins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day...20...technically. Clothespins

Long ago, before he ever even met Daniel, Kris used to feel like he’d never find someone, the right someone, for him. Someone to love him and respect him, and hurt him exactly how he wanted and not any of the ways he didn’t, someone to share a life with. In his college days, he used tie himself up, take ordinary wooden clothespins, and pinch them onto his skin, his nipples, the soft tender skin between his thighs, his balls. Whimper and gasp at the pain, and take pictures of himself to put on the internet. On Fetlife or Grindr, or wherever. _See how good I can be_. 

The first night he met Dan, at a bar -- not on a kink website, or a munch, or a play party, just a regular bar -- he’d felt that zing of something between them. He’d gone back to Dan’s, in a hurry to get his clothes off and his mouth every inch of Dan’s skin he could get to, so much in a hurry he’d forgotten about the pattern of little blue and purple bruises fading ugly green yellow on his skin from his own attempts. 

“Oh,” Dan had said, thumb digging into those bruises, “Oh, baby, look at these. Did you put these on yourself, or was this from playing with someone else?”

“Just me,” Kris had admitted and it’d felt like a sob, like a confession. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” Dan had said, kissing him, sharp teeth against his lip and fingers digging into his thighs, “I’ve got you now.” 

Kris still takes pictures sometimes. When Dan is traveling for work. Dan leaves for the weekend for the All-Star Game and Kris has _maybe_ a little too much wine, sitting at home on a Saturday night and watching all the gifs and reactions and hot-takes of the ASG filter through his feed on Twitter and Instagram. He paints his toe-nails and squirms on the bed, hard and horny and knowing he can’t do anything about it without Dan. Another glass of wine, and Luc Chantal saying, “Oh, me for sure,” when asked who he thought was going to win the NHL Dance Competition, and he texts Dan to say, _is the NHL ready for Luc Chantal shaking his ass on stage?_

_No_, Dan texts back immediately along with two sighing emojis, _but I’m pretty sure they’re going to get it anyway he just told me he can’t stop the beat grinned and ran off_

Kris thinks about Dan’s frown, the stern straight line of his mouth when he’s trying to not let a smile curl up at the corners, and squirms more.   
He gets off the bed, digs around the closet full of toys, and finds the box with the clothespins and sends Dan a picture of them, a silent question and plea. 

He doesn’t have to wait for an answer long. _Is that how good boys ask?_

_please sir_

_Please what?_

_Please tell me where to put them_

_Hmmmmmm, take your clothes off, get on the bed, and send me a picture of three of them on your pec, just under your nipple_

Kris gasps at the first one, and by the third is so unbearably hard he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to stand it. When he sends the pic, Dan texts back, _that’s my good boy. Now put three more on the other side_

_not on my nipple too?_ he asks, desperate for more, even as he feels the pinch on the soft flesh of his chest. 

_Someone is awful eager to talk back when I’m being so nice_

Kris knows he shouldn’t, but really it’s too irresistible an opening. _technically i’m not really talking back i’m typing_

_And yet your bratty mouth will have to suffer for the crimes of your fingers. Go ahead and send me a picture of your tongue with a clothespin on it_

He does, so fast he almost drops the clothespin on the quilt, fingers trembling, but it’s a full minute and a half before Dan responds. When he does it’s a Facetime request, not another text. 

“God, you look so hot, baby,” he says, “I had to go find somewhere with a little more privacy.” 

Kris just whines back into his phone. It’s hard to talk with the clothespin holding his tongue out. 

“Oh, poor baby, is it hard to talk?” Dan smirks, “Here’s what you’re going to do now. How many more pins do you think you fit on that slutty tongue of yours? Try and get two more on, can you do that for me, baby?”

Kris whines an affirmative. It hurts, a sharp pinch and a dull ache underneath, but he does it, staring at Dan’s face on the screen, and the small thumbnail of his own face as a reference. 

Dan groans as he does it and then says, “That’s good, baby, now, do you still want them on your nipples?”

Kris nods.

“Then beg for it, baby. Beg, let me hear you.” 

His pleases come out garbled, and unintelligible, spit dripping down his chin, but he doesn’t stop begging until Dan says, “Okay, baby, you did a good job. Go ahead, put one on each of your nipples. Hurt your tits for me.” 

Kris makes sure to angle his phone down so Dan can watch him put them on, watch as he pinches the pink flesh between pins, watch him squirm. 

When he’s done, Dan tells him to flick them, keeps him there, alternating between the two, flicking and twisting them, until they’re throbbing. “Show me that desperate cock of yours,” Dan says finally, and Kris tilts his phone screen to show him where he’s red and leaking and desperate. 

“Okay, baby, now I want you to get ten clothespins from the box, and lay them out for me. Good job. Now, you’re going to put each one of those on your balls, and after each one you’re going to thank me for spoiling you so much, does that sound good?”

Kris feels a tear slide down his cheek, mixing with the drool on his chin, and nods, frantic to get the first one. God, no one does filthy sweet-mean like Dan. Kris is so lucky. He puts the first one on the loose skin of his sac and groans. 

“Thank you, sir,” he mumbles around his clumsy tongue. 

“Thank you sir for what?”

“Thank you, sir, for spoiling me.” It’s pretty garbled, but it’s the effort that counts, with Dan, and he knows Dan is happy with his from the pleased smile he gets in return, the sharp hunger in his eyes. 

Dan makes him flick each one for a while after putting it on, and doesn’t forget to make him jostle the ones on his chest either, in between. By the time they make it to the fourth one, Kris’s cock is weeping a steady stream of pre-come. By the final one he’s squirming, hips pumping against the air, desperate to come. 

“Do you want to come?” Dan asks, calm as anything. Kris knows there’s no point just nodding, that Dan wants to hear him try to talk so he does, begs for it, messy and wet and so horny he feels like he’s going to die. “Sir,” he finishes at the end, voice breaking, “please let me come.” 

“Put one on the end of your cock, right on the head,” Dan says, like it’s nothing, like it won’t hurt _so much_. “If you can come with it pinching the head of your dick, you can come.” 

Kris’s fingers tremble as he gets the last clothespin, as it bites into the spongy flesh of his tip. He cries out, hand wrapping around his cock. It’s so much, so much, and he jerks himself, still trying to keep the phone pointed down to balls and cock, so Dan can watch how the clothespin bobs and wiggles with his rough jerking. A handful of quick strokes and he’s coming, come spurting out around the wooden pegs, tender balls pumping. 

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” Dan says, soft and reverent, as Kris snuffles, looking back at the camera. “Come on, sweetheart, time to take them off now.” 

It hurts all over again, pulling all the pins off, but Dan talks him through it, telling him how pretty he is when he cries, and how much he wishes he was there. 

“Can you get up to make tea?” he asks, and Kris nods. 

“Okay, good. There should be plenty of ice packs if you need them, too, in the freezer. I’m going to text you in ten minutes for a check in, okay, baby, I want you to be all snuggled up under the covers, watching these professional dumbasses try to pretend they know about anything other than hockey.”

“Love you,” Kris says, tongue feeling strange in his mouth, now that’s it’s free. 

“I love you too, sweetheart, I love you so much, and you did so good. Go make tea, and then text me when you’re in bed again okay?”


	27. Fluid Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 26 - Fluid exchange

It’s 9 p.m., Bells has just gotten back from the gym, and she is definitely not expecting anyone, so the knock on the door is unexpected, and a little worrisome. She puts her shaker bottle down on the kitchen counter and goes over to look through peep-hole, sees a dark coat and familiar jaw line. 

When she opens the door, he's standing there with a bag slung across a shoulder. He’s wearing a toque over his close-shorn hair. She hasn’t seen him in person since his college graduation. She hadn’t gone to his OCS graduation, but they’d talked a little on the phone, off and on, or through text, until it had become increasingly difficult to have any sort of conversation with him that wasn't infuriating or heartbreaking or both. Bootcamp -- or the officer version he had gone through -- and the subsequent schools he’d gone through afterwards, are all about breaking people down and building them back up the way they want them. 

It’s hard to talk to people when they’re in the process of being brainwashed. 

Bells had hated it. Hated talking to him when he was like that. She definitely hadn’t seen him, even though he’d offered, half-heartedly, a few times, for them to meet up. Last she’d heard, he’d been deployed.

Now, here he is. And he doesn’t look anything like the guy, her guy. He looks like someone just shaved away all the soft parts of him. Everything sharper. Harder. A tightly wrapped aggressiveness somewhere that she can’t even pinpoint. In the tension of his shoulders, in the line between his brow, in his jaw, in the poise of his balance. She realizes that she’s just _staring_, silence dragging out, when he finally says, “Jesus fuck, Teixeira, you gonna let me in?" and shoulders his way past her. 

He pulls his toque off when he steps inside, throws his bag down in the entry-way. His ears stick out, a little, without his hair to soften them. He's underweight, too lean, lips chapped, ruddy and wind-burned across his cheeks. 

“I thought you were in [redacted],” she says, as he stalks around her apartment. 

“I got back,” he answers, wandering over to her windows. “Nice place.” 

“Well, you know me,” she jokes, wrong-footed and a little too sharp, “spoiled trust fund kid, enjoying my life of entitled liberal luxury from my ivory tower.” 

If he realizes that she’s just throwing his own words back at him, the last time they’d talked, about three weeks into the combat training course he'd gone to right after OCS, he doesn’t even blink at it. She’d been so mad at him for the sheer _hypocrisy_ of that statement, she’d …. Well, she’d yelled a lot, and then told him to go fuck himself with his rifle, if he loved it so much, and not to call her again. He hadn’t, but a month and a half later he’d liked a picture she’d posted of the beach in Madeira, commented, _nice board, new?_

She’d answered and hadn’t heard from again for another four months when she’d been included in a group email from him giving his forwarding address to receive mail while he was deployed. Two weeks later, he’d DM’ed her on Instagram. No flirtation. No emojis. No apology. Just _what did your dads do when guys came that got traded to the ‘diques from bad situations?_

She’d stared at her phone for 15 minutes, before typing out _what type of bad situation_

_Bad coach_

_how bad_

She’d watched the three little dots appear and disappear for five minutes. Finally, he just said _fuck I don't know moderate to severe_

She’d spent a while typing out her answer. It’d been a couple paragraphs long, not really suited for the format of an instagram DM, but she’d done it anyway. Talked about different situations, different types of ways to handle it. 

He’d replied back _thx that helps_

_why?_ she’d asked.

_unfucking someone else’s mess_

She hadn’t heard anything more for weeks, but he’d kept messaging her, off and on, asking questions about leadership, team dynamics.

Then radio silence. 

Now here he was. 

She’s still kinda mad. 

He’s still looking out her windows, standing at the edge of them, looking around at the buildings. “You’ve been doing good work, I hear.” He pulls her blinds closed. 

“From who?”

“Jace keeps me updated. And the last time I spoke to my father, he called you a nefarious, interfering little communist slut, which means you must be doing something right.” 

She grins, and he smiles back at her. A crinkle at the edge of his eyes. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

He just snorts and leaves the windows, coming into the walk-through galley kitchen. “As it was meant.”

“Do you--” she flounders. He looks-- Well. He looks like he needs to eat, honestly. “Are you hungry? Have you eaten dinner?”

The look he gives her, standing so close, is a little incredulous. “What, did you suddenly get all domestic while I was gone and figure out how a stove works?”

“This is Manhattan, dumbass. Anything you feel like eating can be delivered.” 

He’s so close, close and real and she hasn't seen him in so long, warm and in front of her, and his coat smells like cold outside air, which is no surprise, because February in Manhattan, but also weirdly, like pine trees. Not like pine-scented cologne, or a fake Christmas candle, but like actual trees, like he's got sap stuck to his coat somewhere. 

“The only thing I want to eat,” he says, low and hungry, leaning his head down, fingers brushing her hair away from her neck, lips pressing warm against her ear, “is your pussy.”

She makes a sound, involuntary, and all of a sudden he’s pushing her up against the counter, hiking her leg up around his waist, fast and efficient, arms strong and immovable around her, teeth at her neck. 

It feels _good_, makes lust lurch in her gut, but it’s also…. It’s also so fucking backwards and confusing and what the fuck is happening? She gasps again as he licks at where his teeth were. She brings her hand to his head, an automatic response, fingers searching, but there’s no pretty gold waves for her to yank and tug on her. There’s a second that feels like falling, something in her _lost_ and unsure, and then she brings her hand to his jaw, instead, and grabs hold, yanks his face up to look at her. 

“This isn't how this works,” she says, staring into his hungry face. 

“How does this work, then, Teixeira? Tell me.” 

She takes a breath, tries to catch up with herself. Lifts her chin. “You want something like that, you get on your knees and ask _nicely_, and try to convince me you deserve it.” And then she pushes down, with her other hand, on his shoulder and he just _goes_, sinks down onto his knees on the tile, looking up at her. 

“Shit,” he breathes, “fuck, Teixeira.”

“Ask nicely,” she reminds him, heart hammering in her chest. 

“Please,” he breathes, “pretty please, Bells, can I lick your cunt?”

“Have you been good?” she asks, mostly out of reflex and immediately wishes she hadn’t when she sees his face. The flick of uncertainty that goes through it, the moment of something that shifts instead to frustration. 

“I’ve _fucking_ tried,” he whispers, all that frustration coming through a little vicious. 

She wants to take it back. Tell him he’s good. That he’s her sweet boy, that he could never be anything but good, but god. “I’m glad to hear it,” is all she says instead, lifts a foot up, presses it against his thigh. “But I think I want to hear you beg a little more.” 

He swallows, shifts against her foot. “Please. Fuck, you think I haven’t been…. You know how often I’ve jerked off, thinking about you sitting on my face? Please, please, I want you so bad, you don’t know… you don’t…” 

She drags her fingers over his temple. “Do you want me to right now, or do you want me to shower first? I just got back from the gym when you came here, I feel like I probably stink.” 

He snorts into the palm of her hand and mutters something. 

“What was that?” 

“Marine,” he mutters, “I really, really, really don’t care about you being sweaty, Bells, please.” 

Bells pushes her yoga pants down, biting her lip at the look of absolute desperation on his face. Jesus, it’s like a kick in the chest. “Get to it then.” 

He dives in the enthusiasm of a man dying of thirst, buries his face in her a little too fast, nose bumping against her, tongue insistent. The hair thing is _annoying_, how is she even supposed to grab and put him where she wants him, but she pulls with her legs, puts them over his shoulders and tightens her thighs around him. 

It’s clumsy and too eager and too much, except she's dizzy with him how strong he felt, boxing her in and how fast he went to his knees, and how much she remembers him, the smell of him and the feel of him, and the sound of his voice, and it's suddenly intolerable that she had to waste her time fucking anyone else for the past few years. She digs the heel of her foot into his shoulder blades and grinds her pussy against his mouth, suddenly so close to coming she feels dizzy. 

When she comes she keeps him there, held tight by her thighs, shaking apart against the flat of his tongue, until she finally lets her legs drop and he falls back, gasping. 

"Please?" he begs again, hand straying towards his jeans. 

"Let me see," she answers and he tugs at his zipper, fumbles with the button, pulling his cock out, hard and angry and wet. 

"How bad do you want to come?" she asks, catching her breath. 

"_Please_," he grits out between clenched teeth, and the look in his eye, fuck. 

She slides off the counter, pushes him onto his back, leans over him. When her mouth touches his cock he hisses, hips jerking, and fingers clutching in her hair. It doesn't take long, he was already on the edge. He comes in her mouth, hips shaking, curling around her on the floor, and then falls flat on his back, hands dropping away, panting at the ceiling. 

"Shit goddamn," he huffs. 

Bells crawls half on top of him to kiss him, and he kisses her back without hesitation, the taste of himself in her mouth, his arms wrapping around her. 

They make it to the couch, after, and Bells insists on ordering something. "Why are you half starved?" she demands, but Hayes just yawns sleepily, stretched out on her couch and flipping through channels. 

"I just graduated SERE school this morning, Teixeira, it's been a few weeks since I've eaten."

He opens his eyes, sees Bells where she's staring at him in outrage. "Me and some of the guys stopped at a Denny's on our way out but our eyes were bigger than our stomachs. Couldn't get much more than a few bites down. If you're going to order, order something that will reheat, or is small. I need to eat small meals frequently, until my stomach gets back to a normal size. I can start bulking once I get to jumpmaster training."

"That's… I can't...even...what the fuck, Haywood."

He closes his eyes. "Please, can we not."

When she keeps staring at him, he sighs. "Will it make you feel any better if I tell you that me and Corporal Tjaden were the first to get to a drop site last week, so we split half a fun-sized snickers?" 

"It. Will. Not."

"Then just order food, Teixeira." 

Hayes eats a steamed pork bun slowly, but with great attention. Bells puts the rest of the food in the fridge, and he follows her to the shower. He's got bruises on his wrists that aren't from her, hands rough and cracked, cold-burned. She puts her shower cap on before she gets in. It's not like he's never seen it before. 

"Why are you here?" she asks, when he's sitting on the bed and she's standing by her dresser, rubbing lotion onto her legs. "If you just wanted to fuck someone, I'm sure Oceanside is full of ladies looking for Marines to fuck."

Hayes hums in agreement, eyes never leaving her, like he can't get enough of watching her rub lotion on her elbows or pulling on pajama pants. He's got new ink. Well, any ink at all is new on his skin to Bells. Abstract shapes. Swirls of color. A skull. 

"I assure you," he says, voice warm and content, "there is no comparison."

She hates that way that burns in her chest like a coal, lighting her up and warming her through. 

"But you're right, that's not the only reason I came." 

Well. Bells just waits for him to continue.

Finally he says, "Do you ever think about what it would do to my father’s reelection numbers if I died in combat?" 

"Weirdly enough, Haywood, I try not to think about you dying." 

He rolls his eyes. "Well, I have. At length. Not in OCS, or even in my first deployment. Was just too fucking busy to worry about shit that wasn't immediate. But I thought about it a lot in SERE. Had a lot of time after I got caught to sit and think. So, I have a plan, to make sure he'll never be able to plaster pictures of me in my dress blues all over his campaign posters. You know a good trademark/IP attorney, right? And a rock solid estate planner?"

"Yes…"

"Great. How do you feel about pre-nups?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't panic -- I promise nothing but happy endings.


	28. Role Play Out of Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 27 - Role Play Outside of sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've re-ordered the end of the list of prompts a little to fit the order that my brain seems to want to write them in.

"I would like to state, for the record," Luc begins, "that I have multiple objections to this committee's decision."

"State your objections, for the record." Cinnamon answers, looking up at him over her reading glasses. 

"Objection 1, its going to be to cold as fuck by Halloween and my nuts are going to freeze off in that little skirt."

"Counter objection," Crash pipes up, hanging upside down off the edge of the couch cushions, "it's not a skirt, it's armor."

"It's still breezy as fuck, _Beatriz_."

"Objection sustained."

"Ha!" Luc crows. Then, pauses in his repeated throwing of Mako's ball against the wall. "Wait, what does sustained mean, do I win or lose?"

"I have no idea," Cinnamon tells him, "I just like how it sounds." 

"Hold on, I'll text Pam and ask her."

"Pam charges you $100 per 'dumbass text'," Jacks groans, "please just Google it."

"It doesn't matter," Cinnamon says, "I just liked the way it sounds." 

"But what does that mean for Luc's objection??" Crash asks. 

"Nothing, I just said it for funsies."

"Oh, rad, next."

"Objection 2," Luc continues over top of them, because honestly, "according to the sparknotes, the main conflict of the Iliad happens because Achilles doesn't want to give away Briseis to Agamemnon. Since Sveta is going as Briseis and Sveta was a sex slave _for real_, it seems rude to Halloweenify her trauma."

"It was my idea," Sveta objects.

"Did _you_ read the sparknotes?" Luc asks. 

"No. I read the book."

"Halloweenify?" Buddy asks.

"You know what I mean, sexy historical sex slave costume seems tacky."

"Maybe it's part of my _healing process_, Luc."

"_Is_ it part of your healing process?" Luc asks. 

Sveta snorts. "No, I just realized I could re-use parts of my Empress Theodora costume. Also I thought your legs would look hot in that little skirt."

"Oh look," Jacks mutters, "someone knows how to be frugal." 

"Alright," Cinn says decisively, "turns out I don't give a shit about anyone's opinions except Sveta's on that topic so, moving on, Luc, do you have any more objections?"

"Yes, I object on moral grounds because Achilles shows multiple instances of bad leadership that I'm not comfortable portraying while striving to maintain the standards of captaincy that I hold myself to." 

"Such as?"

"Ummmm…" Luc counts them off on his fingers, "he's whiny, not a team player, puts his own honor ahead of his boys, and would probably never pass the puck. Also, sparknotes says Patroclus dies and I refuse to accept that as an outcome."

Jacks mutters, "Oh my fucking god," softly into his hands. 

"Look," Cinnamon tells him, "Luc, no one is asking you to recreate all the events from the entire battle of Troy. You just have to wear the outfit for a party. Also, Achilles was the world's premiere messy disaster bisexual until you came along to give him a run for his money. You have an obligation to the salty bi disaster community, so your nuts will just have to survive an evening of breeziness. Your objections are noted, but also we don't care. This committee's decision remains. Meeting adjourned." 

"Wait." Socks sits up from where he was napping on the floor. "What's adjourned mean? Do I have to leave now?"

"Not if you don't want to," Cinn promises. "Oh look, Clueless is on."

"Sweeeeeeet," Crash says, and Cinn leans over from her chair to fist bump her. 

"Oh, good," Socks says dropping back to his blanket nest, "hey, put French subtitles on."

"I still think my nuts are gonna freeze," Luc grumbles, but nobody cares.


	29. Anonymity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 28 - Anonymity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmm, kind of a loose take on "anonymity" as a kink prompt, but here's the last of Bells and Hayes as far as Kinktober goes. A couple more stories about them in the works to fill in time between their last two chapters and to wrap things up.

Bells drums her fingers nervously on the steering wheel. 

"I don’t know why you’re so worried,” Hayes says. “Parents love me.” 

Bells shoots him an incredulous glance. 

“What? They do. Teixeira. I get that you were raised in some kind of weird Canadian sports commune, but I’m a Harvard graduate. I’m a decorated MARSOC officer. I work--”

“EXACTLY!” Bells hisses. “Don’t say any of that to them, what the fuck.” 

Hayes blinks. “Well. I thought it sounded a little better than ‘Hi, I’m Lawrence Haywood. My father is basically Sauron, my older brother’s one armband away from joining the SS, and my sister probably bathes in the blood of disadvantaged youths instead of using Botox. Your daughter set up her home audio system to play the Imperial March everytime I enter a room and has devoted her entire international labor law degree to being my father's arch nemesis. We got married in Vegas years ago so that she can legally own my trademark, but don’t worry, our pre-nup is twenty-five pages long. Nice to meet you.’ What do _you_ think I should say?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. Just. None of that. You could say you’re a barista that works in the Starbucks in the UN building.” 

“You want me to pretend to be a _barista_?”

“Whatever, never mind.” 

“No, no,” Hayes says, “you’re the boss. You want me to be a barista. I’m a barista.” 

“You are such an asshole? That’s all you’re going to say, you’re the boss????”

Hayes shrugs. “Happy wife, happy life.” 

“Oh! That bullshit!”

Hayes sighs. “I assure you, I’ve been given stupider mission parameters.” He cuts a sideways glance at her. Life would probably be easier if he didn’t think she looks so fucking hot when she’s mad. He reaches a hand over and tugs gently on one of her ridiculous curls, watches it boing around her chin when he lets go. “C’mon, Teixeira, where’s all your lovey dovey hippie ‘love everyone as they are’ bullshit now?” 

“_My_ love is not the love in question, I want my family to love you.” 

“No. You want your family to love _you_, and you think that if they find out you love someone like _me_, they’ll figure out all the parts of you that you don’t want them to see.” 

“Wow, first off -- fuck you? Secondly, my family and I have amazing communication. I don’t have any secrets from them. We’re not some weird cliche rich family with skeletons in our closets, ok. I love my family. My family loves me. We talk everyday. And they know me really well. Better than anyone.” 

Hayes looks around as she pulls the car into a driveway. It’s a big house. Wide and sprawling, but maybe the most surprising thing is how close it is to the street and the other houses. No gate. No big looping horseshoe-shaped drive. Just a big house with a tiny front yard, a pull-in driveway and a bunch of other cars parked along the curb. Kids playing down the street aways. 

He gets out of the car, stands, leans in to look at her, “That’s horseshit, Teixeira, and you know it.”

Hayes drapes his arm over her shoulder as they walk towards the door, because for all their differences, one thing he and Bells have always agreed on is the importance of a united front. You got problems in the locker room, you keep it in the locker room. 

Bells doesn’t ring a doorbell, just opens the door. A dog starts barking, comes skidding into the foyer and then starts prancing, tail wagging when he sees Bells, knocking against her shins and licking her fingers. She drops down to her knees and wraps the dog in a hug, lets it lick her face. 

“I see who she’s really happy to see,” a voice says from the top of the stairs. 

That’d be Jackson. Tall. Dark red curls streaked with gray. Beard. Flannel shirt. He holds out his hand and Hayes takes it. There's a part of him, a voice that sounds like his dad, that's so hard to shake free of, that can't help notice the way Jackson hasn't cropped his hair or slicked it to cover the curls, that he has an earring despite his age. 

“Lawrence Haywood, sir, nice to meet you.” 

“You can call me Oliver,” Bells’s dad says. “Come on, everyone’s in the kitchen, I think, or outside.” 

Bells stands and her dad’s arms open immediately into a hug. Hayes watches them for a second, the way Bells’s dad squeezes her tight and says, “I missed you, sweetie.” Then he steps back, pats her shoulder, face so warm and welcoming. “Come on, your papa’s grilling.” 

The kitchen is big and open and airy, packed with people spilling out through the open patio doors onto a deck. There’s a round of introductions, taking him through the kitchen and out into the yard. Hayes has always had an eye for faces, and he’s had plenty of training in memorizing big dumps of mission-relevant data fast. He shakes everyone’s hand, repeats their names while looking at their face and linking the name to some feature. Hank. Sasha. Vanya. Sofi. Buddy. Manon. Yasha. Sergei. Mavs. Katya. That one he knows, already, her face all over every sports channel these days. 

And Chantal, of course. Impossible not to recognize. He gives Hayes a brisk hand shake and then prods a bratwurst with the grill prongs. “Hand me that plate.” 

Someone hands Hayes a bottle of beer -- Beatriz Teixeira (_Crash_ she'd insisted), easy to recognize, Bells looks so much like her. Hayes shakes her hand too, thanks her for the beer, and answers Chantal’s questions about their drive. 

“So, how did you two meet?” Chantal asks, and he realizes some time in the small talk, Bells has found her way back to his side, squirmed her way under his arm again. 

“Oh, well,” Bells begins, but Hayes cuts her off.

“I work in the Starbucks in the UN building. We see each other most mornings.” 

There’s a little bit of silence, and in it, mostly Hayes notices the little sag of relief in Bells’s shoulders. And then Mama Teixeira says, “You’re a barista?” in a deeply skeptical tone. 

Hayes smiles blandly. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“You didn’t mention meeting anyone at work,” Katya says to her sister. 

“Oh.” Bells smiles her shiniest media smile. “Well, you know how it is. We just met, really. He spilled a chai on me a few weeks ago, we got to talking. We’ve spent the last few weeks in that new relationship sex daze.”

“The shit you say,” Hayes sighs under his breath. 

“You look really familiar,” Chantal says after a beat. 

“Hmmm,” Jackson adds, “he does look really familiar.” 

“He just has one of those white people faces,” Bells says, the little shit, “it’s easy to mix up.”

He gives her a look but she just smiles her stupid fucking press smile back at him. Fine, he thinks, I guess we’re riding this shit out all the way. 

“Hey!” Hank says, “I remember! Didn’t you play on Bells’s college rugby team?”

Beatriz snaps her fingers. “Number 8!” 

“No, ma’am, I just make coffee.” 

“No, no, I …. Didn’t I see you on CNN a couple of nights ago?” Jackson asks, after a second. 

“I know the khakis and polo shirt make it confusing, but you’ve really never seen him before,” Bells says, voice strained at the edges. 

“No, you were giving some kind of press release from the Pentagon.” 

“No, sir.” Hayes takes a sip of his beer. “I just froth milk.” 

Jackson squints at him. “That’s a pretty sharp high-and-tight for a barista.” 

“Starbucks has a rigorous grooming standard, sir.” 

Katya looks up from something on her phone. “Uh-huh. So what’s in a caramel macchiato?”

Hayes summons the same cool unflappable calm that has gotten him through more shit-fucked missions gone bad, ambushes, and FUBAR fire-fights in the past six years than he can count on all his fingers and toes. 

“Caramel, ma’am,” he says. 

Beatriz laughs, loud and startled, and everyone else chuckles. 

"Stop interrogating that young man," an older woman with silver hair and Luc Chantal’s eyes says. "he's about to start reciting his name, rank, and social security number." She grins at him and passes him a plate. "Here. Have a burger. Happy Canada Day." 

He takes it, happy to have something to do with his hands. "Just gonna recite the Starbucks menu," he assures her. "Thank you. Ma'am." 

It's a good burger. 

A few hours later he finds himself leaning against a low stone wall watching Bells play some kind of vicious-looking hybrid kinda field hockey game, like Calvin Ball with sticks, with her siblings and cousins. 

"They call it Vacation Hockey and it's the bane of every PT in the league, it causes so many injuries." Luc Chantal sits down next to him, passes him another beer. 

"Looks pretty brutal," Hayes agrees. 

Chantal hums and then says, "You ever watch ESPN? Know Vinny Trevisan from SportsCenter?"

"Sure."

"He was one of my rookies. Bells adored him, followed him around like a baby duck. He used to teach her card tricks. His mom was a baccarat dealer in Vegas. Dad does…." He waves a hand, "I never really understood exactly. A pro gambler I guess. He used to teach Bells all sorts of shit. Three card monte. Poker. One time I got called into school because they had field day, relay races, hurdles, whatever." 

"Sure."

"The principal called me in because turns out Bells had set up some kind of betting syndicate. She had a little bookie notebook with all the odds for all the different events and a box full of all the other kids' money. The vice principal was the one that caught her. He was so furious. But her math teacher was excited. She wound up not getting suspended, just had to stay after school, work on a probability project with her math teacher for a month."

Hayes laughs because that sounds _exactly_ like Bells. Right down to the part where she basically got away with it. 

Chantal sits quietly for a few more seconds and then says, "Bells has dated a lot of dipshits." 

"Gee. Thanks."

Chantal cuts him a look. "Most people are kind of surprised when I tell that story. Bells? Baby Bells? Sweet little nerdy Baby Bells, the goody two shoes with the glasses and the cardigans? But you didn't bat an eye, so you must not be that big of a dipshit. And I've got no idea why Bells wants you to pretend to work at Starbucks, but if you're a barista, I got all my gold medals in ice dancing. But you didn't budge once. You held it ten toes down through hours of all of us trying to drag it out of you, so maybe you're loyal too." He slaps Hayes on the shoulder. "Welcome to the family, coffee boy."

Later that night, Hayes finds Bells by recognizing one sandaled leg dangling from a tree house door. 

"Permission to come aboard, ma'am?" he shouts up into the tree. 

"Permission granted!" someone, not Bells, shouts back to him. 

Bells shifts to let him up the ladder, and when he reaches the top, he finds her sister, Katya, behind her, braiding her hair. "I see I'm disturbing a sacred ritual," he says, "I can come back later."

"We're just finishing," Katya assures him, and twists a hair tie around the end of one of Bells' braids. "I need to go find Oskar anyway." 

"By the fire pit, talking to Victor." 

"Thanks!" She gives him a jokey little salute, and a wink, and climbs down the ladder. 

Bells takes his hand. Hayes is about to make a comment about girl talk with her sister when she squeezes his fingers and says, low and urgent. "You were _wrong_, I'm not -- I _assure you_. I am not ashamed of you. I know my family loves me, but beyond that. Haywood, nothing about you is… you are not unlovable. Loving you would not make my parents not love me. That's not it. And I'm sorry. If I made you ever think that."

Hayes has been lied to over the years by a lot of Flag Staff. He's pretty good at smelling bullshit. And there's not a whiff of it in her eyes. She looks miserable and weepy. He squeezes her hand back. "I am assured."

She smiles, and wipes her nose, and says, "But -- I'm sorry. I hate your job." Then she bites her lip, throws a pinecone out the tree fort door and says, "And you're right, I hate my job too. And I don't like… I don't like, about myself, that I can't be happy in it."

Hayes takes a few seconds to consider his strategy and finally says, "Teixeira, that is bullshit. No, shut up and let me talk. You are shit scared of letting these people see your teeth and I have no idea why, because all of them already know, and they all still clearly adore you even though they all know youre a ruthless fucking bitch. And you don't hate your job because you're secretly selfish or shallow or too rich to care about all these fucking things you tell yourself you care about, like human rights or whatever the fuck. You hate your job because you're so scared of your own bite that you muzzled yourself with the bureaucracy of the most impotent organization on the planet. Fuck. That. Teixeira. You hate my job, fine. But be honest about why you hate yours and quit. Find a battle you actually want to win, and then put me where you want me in it. Stop fucking around." 

Oh, she's mad. Mad as a fucking snake, hot red flush across her cheeks and jaw tight. Again, it'd probably be easier if he didn't love her fury, but he does, all that honest, pure rage burning in her heart. Like it's ok if the world is shit, because Bells Teixeira knows, and she's mad, and she's gonna fucking fix it. 

"That was pretty good," she says finally. "A little different approach than the gentle moral nudge I got from Captain Canada earlier, but still pretty good." 

"Yeah, well, I hope you appreciate the 'now go get some, marine' I left off the end."

She drops his hand and squeezes his thigh. "What if I want some?"

He just laughs, and leans back, pushes her hand up farther. "Then I guess you'd better get it. Although uh… tactical analysis of situational--" He gets cut off with a gasp when her hand tightens. "You're not actually gonna fuck me in a tree house 20 feet above your family BBQ are you?"

"Why not?"

"Christ, you really were raised in a commune. Because I'm an officer and a gentleman, and I'm not getting caught with my pants down by anyone's family."

She drops her hand at that and smiles, kisses his cheek. "All right. Guess we better go get in line for s'mores then."

He goes down the ladder first and Bells takes his hand when they walk towards the bonfire. "I'll tell them you're not--" she starts, looking a little sheepish. 

"Oh, fuck no, Teixeira, I'm dug in now. I'm gonna be telling these assholes tidbits from the Starbucks employee training manual and drink menu until we're 80."

"Until we're 80, huh?"

"Eh, marines are pretty stubborn, but I figure around 80 I can safely retire from coffee duty."


	30. Age gap/indulgence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant indulges his own impulses to buy Luc frivolous wrist jewelry. The media notices.

[screenshot from Nordiques off-day interview. Chantal is wearing a hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and a faded, fraying salt-crusted Nordiques baseball cap. The frame is frozen while Chantal is in the middle of lifting his hand to wipe sweat from under his eye. A circle is drawn on the image, drawing attention to Chantal’s watch.] @ALaurent02 lol Chantal wearing a watch worth 5 mil with sweats is such a flex

reply to @ALaurent02 @floraarcana excuse me how much???????

reply to @ALaurent02 @floraarcana @b2mlily 5 mill IF you can even get one. There were only 12 made total. Just getting on the list to get one is a feat

LUC CHANTAL WEARS A WATCH, TWITTER EXPLODES, NEWS AT TEN  
By Noa Gagnon, CDPC

Twitter user @ALaurent02 pointed out today that Nordiques Captain and Bisexual GOAT, Luc Chantal, was wearing an expensive watch. Other Twitter members expressed varying levels of shock that a professional athlete would possess an expensive luxury item. Twitter user @mikiC clarified that this watch appeared to be out of the price range for most professional athletes and was “only something fucking billionaires wear.” 

Twitter user @Henrysskeleton commented “or someone fucking a billionaire” with a picture of Luc Chantal from last summer, in a pair of swimming trunks of decidely European dimensions, sun bathing on a yacht owned by billionaire Grant Hellermann. 

It’s not the first time members of the public have expressed a bewildering amount of feeling towards Luc Chantal’s relationship with time telling devices. Last year, Esquire referred to Chantal as a “noted horologophile”, and @GentlemansTimePiece posted 12 tweets of incensed invective directed at Esquire demanding they print a retraction, citing a grainy post-practice interview with Luc Chantal, where Chantal checks the time on his phone while wearing a limited edition customized Audemars Piguet worth approximately £750K. Chantal was famously quoted in response as shrugging and saying “fuck if I can tell time on the thing. Half the time I can’t even tell where the hour hand is on it.” 

When questioned why he would wear a watch that he couldn’t use to tell the time, Chantal responded, “Well it looks sick as fuck, and the blue part matched my sneakers that day.” 

Luc Chantal, who in last night's game scored a wizardly goal from the half boards off another beautiful no look pass from his husband, Oliver Jackson, has 30 points in the season already, and is on a seven game goal streak. Let the man wear his wrist ornaments in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All twitter names are made up off the top of my head, not meant to be real people.


	31. Body modification, the spirit of tit fucking if not the reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 30 - body modification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jacks gets his nipples pierced

Jacks has seen this expression on Luc’s face once before. 

For all he has the highest sex drive out of anyone Jacks has ever known, Luc doesn’t really… He’s either interested, or he isn’t. If he is, he asks. If he gets told no, he shrugs, and moves on, that person shifted over to the “not interested” category. Jacks has seen him pass an interested glance over someone before, light and fleeting, but it’s never the least bit… covetous. Certainly he’s spent plenty of time looking at Jacks, but that’s not this look either -- it’s greedy, and appreciative, a generous, cheerful, casual possessiveness. Jacks has always belonged to Luc, and Luc is always happy to look at him. 

So Jacks has only seen this look once before, years ago, when Sveta was pregnant with Sasha. She’d come back from a few weeks visiting Stick in Montreal, with breasts that had noticeably grown due to some recent spike of pregnancy hormones. She’d been in a scoop-neck long-sleeved t-shirt, sitting at their kitchen table and sketching out nursery plans, asking them questions about paint swatches and Luc had been making the most determined eye contact Jacks had ever seen. 

Every time she’d moved her arm to erase a line of the graph paper, or reach across the table to hand someone a paint sample, they jiggled, just a little, a wobble that made Lucs eye’s flicker down and then jerk back to a fixed point somewhere between her eyebrows, some little muscle in his jaw ticking. 

Sveta obviously knew when someone was staring at her tits, or trying not to, and Jacks, who was immune to the gravitational pull of Sveta’s mammary tissue, could see the surprise on her face, because Luc just really wasn’t that dude, the confusion, and then, of course, the amusement. 

“So,” Sveta had said, leaning over the table farther than she really needed to reach over Luc and hand Jacks a sample of pale pale yellow paint, “what do you think about this as an accent color?”

Jacks had taken the sample and made some comment about the curtains. Luc had made a sound that could possibly be interpreted as a yes, if you were feeling generous. Sveta had leaned back in her chair, lifted her arms and stretched, and Luc had _groaned_, just softly, shifting in his seat, and then clamped his jaw shut, and Sveta had finished her stretch, dropped her arms and started laughing. A small little snort at first that had bubbled into a full on set of giggles at the look of consternation on Luc’s face. 

Luc had stared for a few more seconds, and then started laughing himself too, big and sheepish. They’d laughed until Luc had finally wiped his eyes, and shaken his head, like he was shaking something loose, and then said, “God, what the fuck, why is all this shit yellow, I thought you were doing something with that teal-green color?” and Jacks hadn’t ever seen that look again.   
Until now, of course. 

Luis repeats the aftercare instructions for the piercings one more time. He’s already given Jacks a little note card with all the key points and a bag with a few bottles of saline wash, and Jacks is 100% sure this fifth repetition of “absolutely no playing with your nipple piercings until they’re healed” is solely for Luc’s benefit, since Luc hasn’t been able to pry his eyes away from Jacks's chest since Luis first put the first bar through. 

It’s a little like how Luc had looked when Jacks got his Stanley Cup tattoo, and all the years after when he’d had a new date added, except that had been more like the usual looks Luc gives him, just more so, and had invariably resulted in Luc taking him home and jerking off close to but not exactly on Jacks’ new tattoo, while the wrapping was still on it, and then collapsing on the bed next to him, hands ghosting over the saran wrap-covered ink. 

They exit the shop and walk towards Luc’s truck, and Jacks neatly swipes the keys from Luc’s hand. 

Luc makes something like a sound of protest, and Jacks says, “If you drive, we will absolutely get in an accident.” 

Luc spends approximately 77% of the drive back to their house staring at the place where the shadow of Jacks’s piercings can be seen through his tanktop and the other 23% of the time pretending he’s not. 

Jacks is pretty thankful they have an empty house to come home to, although that comes down to his own forethought and planning. They kick off their shoes and Jacks herds Luc upstairs. 

“Sit,” he says, and Luc sits on the edge of the bed. 

Jacks takes off his shirt, and Luc licks his lips. Jacks cups his pecs, rubbing his thumbs around the underside of them. It feels good; his nipples ache and his whole chest feels… tight, a soreness radiating out from them that’s going straight to his dick. He makes sure not to get too close to the nipples, but Luc still breathes hard through his nose and lifts a hand like he can’t help himself. 

Jacks smirks and says, “You are so not allowed to touch right now. Sit on your hands,” and Luc _does_. 

Jacks shoves his shorts down and steps out of them. Takes a few steps and swings a leg over, so he’s straddling Luc’s lap. Luc makes a desperate kind of sound, deep in his throat, and Jacks smirks and grinds down on Luc’s erection. “You’re not allowed to touch, are you?” 

“No,” Luc whispers, and Jacks twists his hips again, looking for friction.

“You can’t touch, you just have to look, and want, and get yourself off grinding against me and wishing you could touch, huh?” Jacks presses.

“Oli,” Luc sighs. 

“Come one, Luc,” Jacks says, “I want to feel you, get yourself off.” 

Luc thrusts, his hard cock sliding against Jacks’ thighs, and his taint and his balls, the slipping slide of Luc’s shorts and the cotton of Jacks’ boxers between them. Luc’s head goes forward, mouth so close to Jacks’s pecs until Jacks grabs a fistful of Luc’s hair and yanks it back and Luc gasps, hips bucking, and says, “Oli, Oli, I’m close, I’m gonna --”

“Come on, Luc,” Jacks breathes in his ear, “I want you to come in your shorts, desperate for me.” and Luc does, panting and desperate, and face overcome in longing. 

When he finishes, Jacks pushes and Luc falls flat on his back on the mattress, and knee-walks over him, shoves his underwear down and grabs his cock. He jerks himself, fast and just as desperate, overcome by the site of that look of longing still on Luc’s face. 

Luc blinks, hazy and come-drunk, and Jacks scoots up to kiss him. “Two to four more months,” he whispers into Luc’s mouth, and Luc groans.


	32. Chastity Devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 31 - Chastity Devices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story ties in with WIP about Sasha Volkov that has been languishing in my google docs folder for over a year.

Liam’s not about to say that Sasha Volkov doesn’t look _good_. He’s not sure the man’s even capable of looking less than soul-crushingly beautiful, even at the worst of times, and Liam has, in fact, seen him in the very worst of them. But he does look tired. 

“Alright, mate?” he asks when Volkov meets him in front of the Criterion New. Sasha just smiles, and shakes his head, and throws an arm over Liam’s shoulder. 

“Jet lagged to hell and back. God, I wouldn’t even know what day it was if Miki hadn’t kept reminding me.”

“We can do a raincheck if you’d rather; you look like you need sleep.” Miki, Sasha’s PA, was small, but fierce, and Liam had no particular desire to make his own life harder by throwing her schedules into chaos, especially if those schedules meant Sasha got more sleep. 

“I’ve promised myself I wouldn’t touch a bed before 9 pm tonight, or I won’t ever get myself in the right time zone. Come on, keep me entertained.”

For all his request to be entertained, it’s really Sasha who is the entertaining one. He smiles at the waitress and keeps Liam laughing through dinner and dessert and drinks, even as his eyes flicker shut every once in a while, crying for sleep. 

Liam pays the bill, like he always does. It’s an old argument. 

“I’m the one who ordered the oysters and drank all the champagne,” a very sleepy Sasha mutters as they shrug on their coats, “and I’m the one who insisted on here, and the one with five millionaire parents, which is three more parents than most people have, even if they’re not millionaires, and an Uncle Grant, and….” 

“If you don’t shut up,” Liam tells him while affably nodding goodbye to the hostess, “I’m going to gag you with your scarf.” 

“I’m not one of your subby little twinks.” Sasha pokes him in his side as they step out into the night air. 

“To my great and everlasting sorrow,” Liam agrees. “Do you want to call a car or do you want to walk?” It’s not really far enough to warrant a car, really, but Sasha looks so very tired. 

“To mine?” 

“Yes.”

“Lets walk; if I sit down in a car I’ll fall asleep and I’ve got an hour before I can.” 

Liam doesn’t talk much on the walk, just asks after Sasha’s sisters and the rest of his family and luckily Sasha’s family is big enough that dutiful recitation of all of their most recent events takes up the entirety of the walk. Inside Sasha’s flat, Liam puts the kettle on and Sasha lets out a mighty groan, shrugs himself out of his dinner jacket, kicks off his shoes, and sits on the counter. 

“Alright, what you do want to tell me, international man of mystery.” 

“After eight?”

Sasha opens his mouth, like a baby bird, expectant. Liam rolls his eyes and puts the chocolate in his mouth. “I thought you weren’t one of my little twinks.” 

Sasha winks at him lazily, the cheeky swot. “I’m just very spoiled. Tell me what terrible news you have for me, now that you’ve sweetened me up.” 

“I’m going away.” 

Sasha hums eyes still sleepy and then suddenly looks up, sharp and quick. “Wait, like… Not. You don’t mean forever?” 

“No,” Liam assures him. “Just. For six months or so.” 

“Oh.” Sasha rolls his eyes. “Well, I suppose I’ll survive.”

“Will you?” 

“Oh, come on.” 

“Really, Sasha. Will you? I want you to make me a promise.” 

"Alright."

"No women," Liam says after a deep breath. 

"What?"

"You have the worst, most dangerous taste in women I have ever seen, Sashka, and that's saying a lot, considering the taste of most of my work colleagues."

Sasha rolls his eyes. "They're not that bad."

"Sasha. Sasha. Your least objectionable girlfriend set your Pagani on fire."

Sasha shrugs. "She had a bit of a temper but, Liam, mate, in the sack all that fire was…."

"She set your Pagani on fire _while you were in it_. If you hadn't lied to the police she'd be in prison for attempted murder."

Sasha rolls his eyes. "I got out of it. She wasn't trying to kill me, it wasn't as if the door was locked."

"Do you even hear yourself? Ok, what about the blood diamond smuggler? Or the art thief?”

Sasha gives him a look. “Everyone loves art thieves, don’t be ridiculous, they’re the charming rapscallions of the underworld, there’s nothing wrong with--”

“She garotted a man in Bruges, Sasha.”

“Well, he probably had it coming.” 

Liam takes a deep calming breath. “What about the girlfriend that stole your credit card numbers and used them to buy explosives in an eco-terrorist plot to blow up the World Bank?"

Sasha sighs wearily. "That's like… I mean, it's the World Bank, who doesn't, just a little, want to-- I mean I’m not saying, like obviously that was _bad_, I just mean, you know, it’s not like she was trying to blow up an orphanage or something, right? And wasn’t it scheduled for when the building was going to be empty? I mean, I’m just saying she wasn’t all ---” 

"Please," Liam says, pinching the bridge of his nose, "don't finish that sentence. I was only able to convince MI5 you weren't involved because I had your apartment bugged still, from the thing with Belize. If I hadn't had the recorded… Sasha, will you please take this seriously."

"I'm taking it seriously. I just think it's a little sexist is all."

"It's not sexist. I understand there are plenty of extremely reasonable women who are not dangerous criminals out there in the world. I just wish your dick knew that as well."

"No women at all. For six months?" Sasha huffs "So what, blokes? You know I'm not really … into…."

"Yes, I am aware, to my eternal remorse, that you're not into men. But your dick is a divining rod for trouble, Sash, and considering that the one time you did try to pull a bloke you went home with _me_, the most dangerous of anyone I’ve mentioned so far, I don't think it matters, guy or woman. Or any other gender."

Sasha makes an impatient noise. "So like, no dating at all, the whole time you're gone?"

Liam shifts uncomfortably. "I wanted, I… well I had an idea." He fishes the metal contraption out of his trouser pocket and plops it in Sasha’s hand. 

Sasha stares at it, blinking, then looks at Liam. "You want to lock my dick up? In a cock cage? For _six months_?"

Liam grimaces. "I'd give you the key. It'd be an honor system. Obviously you'd need to take it off when you have a match to play in, or a photoshoot or something. And--" He clears his throat. "There's nothing to prevent you from… taking care of yourself. But I'd… schedule those, all the times you'd need to take it off, and when to put it back on again, and I'd trust you to follow that schedule, for me. So that I knew you were… being good. And safe."

Sasha hefts the metal cage in his hand contemplatively. "Taking government oversight a little far, isn't it?"

Liam gives a half-hearted laugh. "Sash. You once tried to buy a vintage Cartier watch for your father’s birthday from a woman you described as, and I quote ‘a total fucking smoke show,’ and ended up walking into a nuclear arms deal. You have an uncanny knack for finding danger."

Sasha looks at him speculatively. "How much of this is your legit concern, and how much is your kink?"

Liam shrugs a little, "admittedly, if I wasn't inclined in that direction anyway I doubt it's a solution that would have occurred to me."

"What other option would you have suggested?"

"I'd want you to send a photo, you could take it with your sunglasses or whatever, or however, of anyone that seemed interested, made a move, or that you were interested in. I wouldn't be able to vet them but I'd have someone else from my office do a background check. If they cleared it, they'd give you a go ahead. Someone would shadow you… on your dates, keep a watch on whoever you were with just in case-- "

Sasha laughs. “That is _mental_, you know that right? Like this is… So like that woman that gave me her number last week, whatshername, I'd have had to _take a picture_ of her, submit it to the fucking SIS, and if they said she wasn't a …mass murderer or something, then I could give her a call? That's ridiculous."

"The woman at the cafe last week?" Liam says, "Sasha, that woman used to be CIA. She went freelance about two years ago; she's a wet work operative with a kill count in the double digits."

"Are you serious?"

Liam gives him half a smile. "She shot me once in Belgrade. I am extremely relieved you never called her back."

"Fuck.” Sasha looks up at him, doubt in his eyes. “I’m not really… Am I really that… bad at… I don’t like bad… people.” 

Liam pats his knee. “You don’t. You’re not. Sasha, that’s not what I meant. You just...” He sighs, and scrubs his hand over his hair. “You have a danger kink a mile wide. And you’re....” He pauses, trying to think how to say it. “You’ve got three passports, you speak six languages passably well, you’re rich, you’re charming, and you have an excuse to travel pretty much anywhere on the planet. You’re operator-_candy_. You’re, like, the perfect asset. It’s not your fault that you attract interest from a very specific demographic, and that your adrenaline-junkie dick just swerves right towards them.” 

Sasha licks his lips, he rolls the cage around his hand. "Ok," he says, "ok, I'll do it."

Liam hums. "Take tonight and think about it, tell me in the morning."

"Yeah, alright. You staying here tonight, then, you want the spare room?"

Sasha doesn't need to do much to get Liam settled. He stays at Sasha’s pretty often. He's got a couple of spare suits in the closet, duplicates of his toiletries in the bath. Sasha heads to his own bedroom after making sure Liam doesn't need anything, rinses off airplane air in a quick shower, and goes to bed. 

He's dead tired but it's hard to sleep; he feels wound up, on edge, and he drags a hand over the cloth of his briefs, presses down with the heel of his hand onto his dick, feeling it firm up. 

He thinks about the warm metal of the cage in Liam's hand and gasps at how that thought goes straight to his cock. He puts off wrapping a hand around himself and instead tries to think about _why_ that’s so hot. 

Sasha had tried being into men. Really. For all he'd pretended Liam was overreacting, there'd been a time, after Heidi and the Pagani, when he'd thought maybe he should stay away from women, that maybe he'd be better off finding someone _nice_, and thought maybe his problem was just that he'd been looking in the wrong places all along. 

He’d tried. He'd found Liam. It had pretty conclusively proved he wasn't into fucking men, but he’d gotten one of his best friends outside of his family out of the experiment in the end, after the whole…. Thing…. With the watch, and the “arms deal” or whatever. That had been… bad. But that's when he'd found out that Liam wasn’t actually a veterinarian and was in fact… whatever the fuck he is. 

Liam hadn't believed him, at first, that it was all just a wild bunch of coincidences, that Sasha really wasn’t some kind of triple agent, and it was all a big misunderstanding, but they'd gone through hell together, those few weeks, saved each other lives, had each other's backs. You don't drag yourself through the Siberian wilderness with someone, bleeding and scared, without building a certain kind of trust.

Trust was… Sasha trusted his family. He loved his family, and they loved him. They’d do anything for him, and he’d do anything for them, and he’d grown up surrounded by that trust and love, the rock-solidness of it. It’d been an extremely shitty learning curve, when he got older, realizing that not everyone was as ride-or-die as his family. That not everyone deserved to be trusted as much as he trusted his siblings and cousins and parents. That the world was full of people who just… wanted shit from him. Wanted a piece of his fame or his money or his looks or whatever. Wanted what he could give them, and didn't give a fuck about him beyond that. 

But after the absolute shit show of the Watch Situation, Sasha had Liam. Liam who he trusted, who he loved, even though he wasn't family. Who, yes, true, he didn’t want to fuck, but always, always looked out for him. 

Sasha can't help thinking about that trust now, about Liam worrying about him, about Liam locking him up. Liam keeping Sasha's cock. Keeping Sasha safe. 

He pushes his briefs down and starts stroking himself slow and easy, thinking about Liam, with his dangerous hands, and his bright, cold eyes, and his charming smile, and Liam, tired and defeated and almost out of solutions, wrapping Sasha's wrist in a makeshift splint in a trapper’s hut somewhere in the God-knows-where, telling him they'll get through this, that it will be ok. Liam arguing against his bosses at MI6, and like, pissing off all sorts of people at MI5 to sort out the thing with Nadia and the credit cards. 

Liam bickering with Miki to make room in Sasha’s schedule for some down time so he can rest. Liam feeding him an after-eight, or always remembering how he likes his tea. 

He comes, gasping, surprised, thinking about Liam putting the cage on him in the morning and telling him to be good while he's gone. Liam’s faint blush under his dark skin when he'd told him he could still _take care of himself_, but that he’d _schedule_ when Sasha could take the cage off. 

Shit, he thinks, wiping on a tissue from the bedside table. _Shit_. And then, as he’s drifting quickly to sleep, energy and anxiety drained out of him with his orgasm, _Oh, shit, I’m in love with him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I made it to the end. Many many months after October is over, hahaha. Thank you all for reading these.

**Author's Note:**

> I (and the list I am using for Kinktober) are on Superstitionhockey on tumblr
> 
> Many thanks to Dangercupcake for beta-ing

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A-game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21283472) by [ribbons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbons/pseuds/ribbons)
  * [Two Captains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23500855) by [ribbons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbons/pseuds/ribbons)


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